


City Lights

by onlythevoid



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: ...eventual smut, Anxiety, Australia, Biting, Blow Jobs, Drug Addiction, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Guitars, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Misunderstandings, Muke - Freeform, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pining, References to Depression, References to Rehab, Sharing a Bed, Smoking, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Sydney - Freeform, Therapy, Touch-Starved, and they were roomates, ashton and calum are minor characters, contemplation of life/death, falling in love babey!!!, have been to sydney!, i guess it takes place in 2019?, i used real places kind of, i wrote this all before posting it ur welcome, im not kidding about the pining get fucking ready, its all pretty tame tho lol, just a lot of gotdamn feelings, just two dudes living in an apartment together, love yall lmao, mentions of luke and michaels families, never been to redfern tho, nighttime convos are the best kinds of convos, romance isnt dead after all, self care goals amiright, thats why its marked explicit, they are both 23, this took me literal months to write lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 79,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25677889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlythevoid/pseuds/onlythevoid
Summary: Rain in Sydney used to feel warmer to Michael.Now the water ran cold over his trembling, outstretched fingers, dripping from his nails in broken streams. There was something mesmerizing, Michael thought, about rain; there was something real to it, something so undeniable about it that grounded Michael in his wretched reality. It had sunk its claws deep into his heart tonight, and he didn’t know when it would let go.--//--Set in the district of Redfern, in Sydney, Australia. Michael's homeless, an alcoholic, and he has $200 in his pocket - just enough to pay the pretty blond stranger's rent for the next two weeks.
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Luke Hemmings, Muke
Comments: 23
Kudos: 43





	1. ACT I

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:
> 
> This work has no relation, significance, or connections whatsoever to the real world. This is purely a work of fiction and creative inspiration based around the personalities of real people. Characters in this work of fiction can be thought of as completely removed and independent of the people their names represent.  
> :)
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> This wasn't originally written as a 6 act story, so excuse the structural inaccuracies!! lol  
> I was going to do a chaptered thing where I updated regularly, but I am a menace when it comes to continuity errors so I figured I'd finish the whole thing before posting.  
> Also! Fanfic doesn’t substitute for sex ed, so pls do your research and be safe!  
> this is not meant to be an educational piece, and I have no personal experience with addiction. that being said, I did some research, and much of what is written is completely plausible irl. I encourage yall to do your own research, and seek help for addiction if you or someone you know needs it!  
> *each part is titled with a song lyric. All the songs used are listed at the end of each act, and the title of the entire fic is from Waste The Night (by 5SOS).
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

1

_Caught in purgatory, I could paint the scene_

Rain in Sydney used to feel warmer to Michael. 

Now the water ran cold over his trembling, outstretched fingers, dripping from his nails in broken streams. There was something mesmerizing, Michael thought, about rain; there was something real to it, something so undeniable about it that grounded Michael in his wretched reality. It had sunk its claws deep into his heart tonight, and he didn’t know when it would let go.

Withdrawing his hand, Michael tucked it against the rest of his body. He took a long, shaky sigh, and tucked his face against his knees, the denim rough against his face. At least there was some cover beside the dumpster he’d picked for this evening. Despite the relief from the rain, the concrete was unforgiving on his backside, and the brick wall he was propped against was riddled with filth and bumps. 

Long moments passed in the dark. The sun had suffered an invisible sunset some time ago, shrouded by grey clouds that turned black in the night. There was a dampness that hung in the air, combined with the sharp smell of gasoline and metal, and a hollow wind that managed to scatter the dust near Michael’s feet. The relentless thrum of rain droned across the asphalt and reverberated in Michael’s brain. His arms felt heavy and shivery and he could have sworn his withdrawal was supposed to be over by now, he’d made himself hold off for an entire 24 hours, but his symptoms spelled a hard contradiction.

Michael tried to take his mind off of himself, failed, and ended up wallowing in a despairing funk for an indeterminate amount of time. He was woozy, his heart was racing, his body drenched in a cold sweat while at the same time trembling, and he felt both sick and painfully awake.

Who would have fucking known alcohol withdrawal was going to be this bad? Michael hated to imagine what he’d be like if he’d gotten himself unreasonably addicted to crack, or heroin, instead. Dead, probably.

It took less than a minute before Michael realized he was going to break. He was going to take a crumpled bill out of his pocket, stand up, and walk down Wells Street until he reached the 24-hour convenience store he knew so well, and hand over his life again.

Michael struggled to push himself into a standing position. His legs were buzzing. He extended one shaky arm to support his body and made his way towards Wells, feeling his hair flatten against his neck and forehead in the rain. His shirt under his jacket clung to him uncomfortably, and water trickled into his eyes.

Michael had almost made it onto the sidewalk when he saw someone approaching. He froze, trying not to be seen. Nobody enjoyed seeing strange men emerge from commercial parking lots at night. He waited, shivering, in the shadows.

The person passed him, talking in a distinctly male voice to himself. Michael couldn’t make out the words, and he didn’t care anyway, so he started to step out onto the sidewalk. His shoes were filling with water and he ached for a drink. Before he got any farther, however, the stranger stopped and turned on his heel, saying angrily, “... so fucked… I’m gonna be fucking homeless now-” 

The man cut himself off. He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide in surprise.

Michael froze too. They were a couple of feet apart, and close enough to the streetlight on the other side of the road so that Michael could see his face. 

The first thing Michael thought was a very intelligent _wow_ before he was backing away, an instinctive apology poised on his lips. He downcast his gaze but didn’t quite manage to put the memory of the man’s face out of his mind; wide eyes, appearing slightly hooded in the darkness, lips parted with surprise, a few strands of hair curling out from under the hood of his jacket, golden-blond, and the faintest bit of stubble ghosting his jaw. He felt a kind of grim annoyance that this man could look like _that_ on this sorry night while he was a sweaty wreck, jittery with withdrawal, unshaved and sporting half-bleached hair that hadn’t been cut in months.

Michael realized he hadn’t actually said anything. He cleared his throat and stepped farther out of the way. “Sorry, he muttered. 

_... gonna be homeless_ , Michael repeated in his head. Well, that was funny. Michael wondered what the man had been saying before. _You are gonna be homeless? We are? I am?_

The man opened his mouth to respond to Michael’s apology, eyebrows furrowing. He didn’t end up saying anything.

Michael’s brain persisted, pushing him towards the one destination that would make him feel normal again: the convenience store liquor section. Michael stood his ground, feeling the inklings of curiosity pool around him.

“What were you saying?” He heard himself ask. His voice was rough, but it felt gratifying to speak after a long time spent by himself.

The man still looked a little shocked about seeing Michael materialize on the sidewalk. Michael felt less and less happy about standing in the pouring rain, and started counting down in his head. When he got to zero, he’d leave. He eyed the expression on the man’s face, taking in the layers of misery and anger and hopelessness that he hadn’t picked up on beforehand. Well, then. This man was a walking time bomb.

“I said, I’m gonna be homeless,” the man responded, too late to be casual, but with such dullness that gave Michael the impression he didn’t give a shit. And, if he did, he probably wouldn’t be telling Michael. He was surprised the man hadn’t turned away or pushed past him yet. Then the man stood up a little straighter. “Wait, are you...?”

Michael couldn’t help a shocked laugh escape. It scratched his throat on the way up. _Are you homeless?_ “That depends,” he said.

It was true. His state of house depended on a lot of things - his sobriety, the time of day, where he was in Sydney. He didn’t know why the man was asking, but he didn’t want to stop talking to him.

The man was looking at him with narrowed eyes. Michael had to force down another laugh that threatened to bubble to the surface. His heartbeat was erratic, and his knees barely supported him, and his hands shook by his sides, and his brain was working overtime to fight off the now-nonexistent presence of alcohol it was so used to. He almost felt drunk on his own nerves. It was the shittiest feeling the world.

“You get kicked out or what?” Michael asked. Just give up, he urged himself. Just go get a fucking drink and everything will be fine. Stop antagonizing strange men on the street with pretty gold hair and devastated expressions. They didn’t deserve it.

The man opened his mouth, then closed it, then hesitated. “No. I mean, yes. My landlord.”

Michael nodded sagely. He felt his legs waver, and reached out behind him for the brick wall, trying to stabilize himself. “Can’t pay rent?”

“Can’t pay rent,” the man confirmed, sighing. His eyes darted between Michael’s face, Michael’s hand leaning heavily on the wall behind him, and along the dark street. Michael let him draw his own conclusions about why Michael was so unsteady. He wasn’t about to tell. Like a broken record, his mind was spinning the same lines over and over again. It was hard to keep tabs on the whole situation while his body was twitching with a cracked-out breed of anxiety. 

Michael was about to stumble away from the wall and start hobbling down the street when the man spoke next. It was a question. “Do you have a job?”

Frustrated, Michael paused. “Yeah.” And he did, supposedly. Maybe. If he decided to take up his rehab therapist’s offer and go down to Redfern Fruit Market tomorrow at nine in the morning for a job interview, that is. He wasn’t going to go, obviously, but the man didn’t need to know that. He probably just wanted to hear that Michael wasn’t some shitbag pity case he had to feel sorry for.

“You have a job. And nowhere to live.”

Now the man was being irritating. There was a spark of strangeness attached to his words, though, that made Michael doubt that they were meant to be inflammatory. What was that about? What was the man implying? Michael found that thinking too hard made his head ache, and he shoved the thought out of his mind. It was readily replaced by the usual mantra.

“Do you want a place to live?”

Michael wasn’t sure if the man was being serious. “What?” 

The man nodded to himself, hesitant, nervous, face still lined with worry. “Do you want a place to live? Like… Do you have two hundred dollars? To pay the rest of my rent this month?”

Two hundred dollars for this man’s rent, Michael thought. For a place to _live_ , away from rehab and the streets. Michael would have to be insane not to consider the offer. He stared at the man, searching for any kind of indication he was joking. All he saw was desperation.

And he could really fucking relate to that.

Michael dug through his pockets. He knew he had money saved up from his last job that he hadn’t used up yet, and there might just be enough. His hands felt weak and clumsy, and he fumbled more than once, but he kept going. There were a few twenties, a fifty, a small stack of tens that he counted by touch in the dim streetlights, and a pocket full of change that he didn’t bother weighing out. The bills passed two hundred. 

“Yes,” Michael said. The man closed his eyes and let out a relieved breath. Michael stared.

“Nice to meet you,” the man said. He held out his hand for Michael to take. “I’m Luke.”

Michael looked at Luke’s hand, then at his face. He reached out. His hand was dripping wet and numb, and he knew his fingers were trembling way too violently to be passed off as normal; Luke’s hand was slippery with rain too, but it was warm, and Michael didn’t want to let go. He lifted his other hand and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’m Michael.”

\---

“Mr Owens. Hi. I’m sorry about the confusion earlier. I can actually pay for this months’ rent.” 

The man - Luke - was on the phone, pacing. A few minutes ago, Michael had followed him down Wells Street, the opposite direction to the convenience store, to this shitty apartment complex at the edge of Redfern. It was called The Aspect. The lobby was small, but it was warm, and Michael looked around at the walls for things to distract himself with. The clerk on the other side of the front desk eyed him severely. 

Michael looked away from her and pressed his palms into his jeans. He looked at Luke instead, who had removed his hood - his hair was damp and curly and was getting progressively messier, because he kept running his hand through it, pushing it back off his face. Michael caught himself with his gaze glued to Luke’s profile, thrown into detail under the ceiling lights. Ah, well. At least if he was thinking about Luke, the jittery need filling his body wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. 

“Does that sound alright to you? Thank you. Thanks so much, Mr Owens. Okay.”

Luke clicked his phone off and sighed. He glanced over at Michael and offered him a small smile. Michael nodded back, not trusting himself to do much more. He felt insanely sick - like he was either going to throw up or die. Or both.

“Okay, Michael?” Luke was talking to him. Fuck. Act normal.

“Yeah.”

He stood up and prayed his knees wouldn’t buckle. There was no way Luke hadn’t realized something was wrong with him. Luke was watching him carefully, now, too, and Michael faltered under the man’s prying eyes. He was moments away from bolting out of the apartment building with his two hundred dollars and getting a fucking drink.

“Okay,” Luke said, finally. “Here, follow me.”

Michael ground his teeth until it hurt and forced his legs to guide him after Luke. This was the worst night of his fucking life. Maybe Luke would have some vodka in his apartment. He prayed that was the case.

There was no elevator, so Michael struggled up the stairs, half a flight behind Luke. Two floors up, Luke turned off into the hallway, and, after glancing behind him to see that Michael was still following, went left towards the rooms labeled 201-207. It was a small building, and there were probably only twelve rooms on this floor, tops. Michael took in the awful red patterned carpet, the cream-colored walls, and the bright white LED hallway lighting instead of thinking about how his body felt like it was about to burst apart. Somehow the colours were not a nice combination, and paired with the cracking off-white paint on the wood doors, the entire complex gave off the feeling of a cheap and unnaturally deserted motel. The whine of a generator somewhere in the building only added to it.

Luke had a door held open for Michael to enter, the light already on inside. Black letters on the door spelled out _202_. Michael stepped past Luke into Luke’s apartment and scanned the room, not wasting any time. The shivers had spread and his entire body was shaking like a leaf; he was almost dripping with cold sweat, and his legs, wildly unsteady, buckled until he was leaning his entire weight against the wall on his right. Michael’s heartbeat pulsed in the corner of his eyes. 

“Hey?” The door closed behind Luke with a heavy click. Luke sounded panicked. “Uh, Michael? What is- are you-“

Michael felt a hysterical laugh fall out of his mouth. He didn’t have anything to say. He stumbled forward and made for the tiny kitchen. Luke’s apartment was easy to navigate - from the door it opened into a rectangular main room. A couch and a TV were by the window on the far wall, and directly to Michael’s left was the small kitchen setup. There was a door on Michael’s right that he assumed led to the bathroom, and another door a bit farther down that was half-open, probably leading to Luke’s bedroom. A desk stood against the wall opposite the TV, behind the couch. There were curtains drawn over the window.

Once in reach of the kitchen cabinets, Michael pulled them all open, frantic. Luke had to have some booze, somewhere, and Michael was going to find it. It was just a matter of time, Michael convinced his maniacal brain, just a matter of time.

“Michael- stop- what are you doing?” Of course, Luke was fast on his heels, voice rising. “What the fuck are you-“

“Do you have any alcohol, by any chance,” Michael cut him off. His words were shaky, and rambling, and he was panicking. They were both panicking, for completely different reasons. Luke stared at him in response.

“Anything,” Michael supplied, desperate. “Do you have anything, anything I can drink-”

“What the fuck, Michael?”

Luke’s face was open and confused - he had no fucking right to be that confused, Michael had been very explicit with his questions - and he held his hands in the air, palms down, as if trying to calm a startled animal. Fuck you, Michael thought.

Michael was hopped up on adrenaline, and his body was working again. He surged forward, soaking wet shoes shrieking on the tiles of the kitchen, and nearly knocked Luke over; he caught him by the collar of his jacket, gripping tight with both hands until his knuckles were white and trembling. Michael was breathing too hard. He was distantly aware Luke was a couple inches taller than him. Luke’s shell-shocked expression did nothing to bring him to his senses.

“Do you?” Michael bit out.

Finally, Luke spoke, voice sharp. “Why the hell do you want to know?” 

The contrast between Luke’s tense face and his stubborn voice made Michael angry, then perplexed, and he loosened his grip on Luke’s jacket. Then he changed his mind and pushed Luke, hard, into the wall.

Luke gasped and raised his hands to fight off Michael. He struggled to put his feet back under him. Michael didn’t like watching him struggle, but he needed - he - fuck, he should have never stopped to talk to this man in the first place. Fuck - he was pinning a stranger to a wall in an apartment that was not his, that he’d never been in before. Oh, this was a bad, bad night.

“No,” Luke spat out, after a second. “No, I don’t. Fucking- so you’re an addict, then?”

Michael released him and stumbled backwards. Luke’s face was cold and stony and remorseless, but his eyebrows were pinched together in a strange, twisted grimace. The coldness was probably fair, given that Michael had attacked him only moments ago, but the strangeness was… well, it was too complicated and too short-lived for Michael to figure it out.

Instead of booking it out of the apartment, Michael found his feet frozen to the floor. He should go. He should really, really leave, and he should go get drunk past high hell and pass out and never, never wake up. But he couldn’t move. _So you’re an addict, then?_ Luke’s eyes were cutting and bright blue - holy shit, Michael hadn’t realized that until now - like pieces of the ocean, deep enough to drown in. His jaw was set. 

“What’d you fucking expect?” Michael snapped back. “You found me on the fucking street. You should call your fucking landlord back.”

With that, he gave into the white noise in his brain and strode towards the door. He wasn’t expecting Luke to dart in front of him and block the door.

“Wait.”

Michael choked down a frantic laugh and made to shove past him. If he wanted to leave, he’d fucking leave. 

“Move,” Michael grunted, when Luke held firm. He did not want to meet Luke’s cold blue stare again, so he set his eyes on the door handle, and he all but dived for it, slipping to Luke’s left with a hand outstretched and his head angled down.

Luke’s hand shot out and gripped Michael’s wrist, and he caught Michael’s body against his own. Luke’s other arm went fast around Michael’s back, locking him in place, and Michael allowed himself a moment of quiet hysteria; he was trapped in a room with a fucking psycho who was actively _not letting Michael leave_ , and this had to be illegal somehow, but the law had been so completely not on his side for so much of his life that he didn’t consider shouting for help. He fumbled for the doorknob in spite of the hand circling his wrist. He struggled and kicked at Luke’s feet and tossed his head back and forth, trying to dislodge himself, but he was either too weak or Luke was too strong.

“Fuck,” Luke panted. At least he was putting in effort too, Michael thought. Michael had his face crushed sideways on Luke’s black rain-covered jacket, somewhere against Luke’s shoulder, and he could feel Luke’s chin dig into the top of his head when he moved. He was pressed gracelessly against Luke’s chest and their feet were tangled together. There were only two upsides to the whole situation: adrenaline had made Michael’s trembling less immediately noticeable, and Michael could smell a hint of Luke’s cologne and it was probably the nicest thing he’d smelled in weeks.

Michael stopped struggling after a few moments. He’d made a break for it when he had the chance. He felt Luke let out a breath. 

“Sorry,” Luke said, almost directly into Michael’s ear. His arm was still holding Michael bodily against him, and his hand was latched onto Michael’s right wrist, so he clearly wasn’t that apologetic. “Let’s talk?”

“Yeah, let’s talk,” Michael said, civilly. He pulled back until Luke let go of him, still eyeing him warily. 

Luke opened his mouth and took a step away from the door, and Michael lunged forward and put both hands on the doorknob. A wave of victory crashed through him - then Luke swore, loudly, and couldn’t get to Michael’s hands fast enough, so he shoved into Michael’s space and kneed him soundly in the crotch.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Michael bit out. That hurt like all hell. It had worked, though; he was hunched over, and he had cowered away from the door. “Fuck, fuck you.”

Luke gave him a grimace. Michael felt his head spin and realized he was so, so tired, and though his mind raced and his body shook, he was so close to slipping into a fitful sleep. He felt like he was going to split into a million pieces of shattered glass. He felt his heart pulse in his throat, erratic, out of time, and realized it could stop beating any second, and that would be a fucking relief, if he was being honest. He was exhausted and frustrated and burning with need and anger but his body was a shivering wreck.

“Fuck you,” he groaned, again. He tried to shove Luke away from him and stumbled, almost falling over, caught at the last second by someone’s hand on the side of his ribs, supporting him.

He registered that Luke was leading him over to the couch, and he didn’t bother resisting. If he was going to die, then on a couch in a warm apartment complex was a good way to go. He let himself be guided by Luke’s arm around his waist, vision muddled, blood pumping. Luke was saying something to him - what was it? Michael almost couldn’t hear anything anymore but the thick buzz of white noise and a high ringing note, up in the air. 

“-long as you stay here, I swear I’ll get you whatever. Okay? I said, as long as you stay-” Michael tuned out and let himself fall onto the couch in front of the TV, knowing his legs would buckle if he tried to support himself on them. He saw, though lidded eyes, Luke hurriedly shifting things around on the floor, on the far end of the couch - he was moving way too fast for Michael to keep track. It wouldn’t matter to Michael if he was sitting in a pile of trash. In his state, he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell.

“Stop moving.” Michael grumbled. Luke’s guarded blue eyes, nonplussed, were the last things he saw that night.

  
  


**2**

_To redeem this empty life_

Michael’s eyelids felt glued shut. He woke up slowly at first, then faster, remembering where he was and what he was doing - he was lying on a couch, in a warm room, and he felt like utter shit, and he was shivering under some kind of blanket.

Michael groaned a raspy, low note, feeling his throat burn. His mouth was painfully dry.

Was he still in withdrawal? It had been… Michael didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t feel as bad as he did last night. The worst of it must have been over.

He lifted his hands to his face and pressed his fingers into his eyes. He rubbed them until they opened, and then he blinked in the darkness of the room. There was a loud rustling noise and a figure half-stood up in front of the TV cabinet. Michael squinted at it and made no movements - after a few seconds, the figure slumped back onto the floor with a sigh, apparently realizing Michael wasn’t about to leap into attack mode just yet.

“Morning,” Luke said, sounding exhausted and annoyed. He shifted on the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest. Michael couldn’t see much else, but there was a tiny light on in the kitchen somewhere that cast a glow on the wall by the door - he blinked the sleep out of his eyes and held his hands to his aching head.

“Wh-” Michael tried to speak, but he was hoarse. He licked his lips, finding them cracked and dry, and groaned again. “What- what time is it?”

Luke’s phone lit up from the floor, and the bright screen illuminated Luke’s tired features. “Seven-thirty.” He clicked the screen off. 

Silence reclaimed the room, and Michael became more and more aware of his body. He felt disgusting; it wasn’t a surprise, given he’d pretty much soaked through his entire t-shirt with sweat last night and his ratty black windbreaker was keeping all the moisture in. His jeans felt rough and scratchy on his legs, and his hair was matted to the side of his face. His shoes were damp and he knew his feet had probably been sitting in water for a gross amount of time. At least, he figured, his heartbeat had calmed slightly and he could think straight. 

Michael brought his attention back to Luke. He couldn’t see Luke’s eyes, but he had a feeling Luke had been watching him for a long time.

“So,” Luke started. He stretched out his arms in front of him, and Michael heard his joints crack. A few more seconds passed. Michael waited. “So, we need to work some things out.”

Michael almost laughed. Yeah, he thought. For a moment, he entertained the idea that Luke was going to ask him to leave, but Michael was the one who had enough money to pay up Luke’s rent. If Michael left, Luke was going to have to leave, too. And, if Luke was a man desperate enough to offer someone like Michael a place to live… it wasn’t likely he’d want Michael to go anytime soon. 

Michael cleared his throat. “Do you have water?” 

Luke nodded. “Yeah, uh, one sec.” He hurried to stand up, but hesitated before going anywhere. Another glance at Michael seemed to reassure him Michael wasn’t going to make a run for it.

Luke went into the kitchen, and Michael dozed and listened to the tap running. Another light turned on with a short click. He squeezed his eyes shut, tucked his hands against his neck, and yawned; it was kind of nice, he thought, that he had been able to sleep on a couch. He could definitely get used to this.

Luke returned a minute later, holding out a glass of water for Michael to take. Michael accepted it gratefully, noting that his hand was only trembling a little - that was a very good sign. Once Luke deemed him capable of not dropping it, he continued past Michael to pull the curtains away from the window, bathing the entire room in a grey morning haze.

Michael rearranged his body in a sitting position. There had been a blanket over him - he ended up draping it over the back of the couch. He took small sips from the glass of water and ran his left hand through his hair, taking in the rest of Luke’s apartment. He’d looked it over last night, of course, but he hadn’t taken any notes. The apartment was small. The floor was cream-coloured carpet in the living room, and tile in the kitchen - most of the carpet was untidy and there were shoes in the most inopportune places: one against the TV cabinet and a pair beside the window. A tangle of wires were clumped under a wall outlet. Behind Michael, against the wall opposite the TV, a wooden desk was set up with a laptop and some expensive-looking speakers. 

Luke brought a chair from the kitchen table and sat down a few feet away from Michael. Michael felt Luke’s eyes on him when he took another drink, and elected to ignore him for a while longer.

“So,” Luke prompted. When Michael raised his eyebrows, he continued. “I think I need to explain my situation a bit.”

Michael nodded. The water was clearing his head, and he felt more and more sane. A small anxious jitter and a dull headache were the only things that remained from last night’s hardship, but the ever-present sobriety was still nagging at his brain.

“I’m self-employed,” Luke went on. “I’m trying to get work as a studio musician, but that’s not happening yet. I do production stuff. Selling soundbites, of, you know, vocal samples, and mixing songs. In short, that’s why I’m broke.”

“Did you sleep last night?” Michael interrupted. Luke was leaning heavily on his Australian accent, a universal sign that anyone was tired. Anyone Australian, that is. Michael wouldn’t usually notice, but the shadowy image of Luke sitting on the floor watching him on the couch was still stuck in his mind.

Luke gave him a weird look. “Uh, not really. I was worried you’d leave.”

Michael huffed. Well, okay, Luke had watched him sleep for seven fucking hours. There was something to be said about Luke’s dedication, at least.

“Anyway,” Luke said. “I am so close to being kicked out for good. My rent is already two weeks late.” When Michael didn’t comment, he gestured hopelessly with a sigh.

“Well, that’s where you come in. It’s- my apartment isn’t really supposed to be shared, I think, because there’s only one room and the couch doesn’t pull out or anything. But, hey, it’s not that bad, right?”

Michael didn’t change his expression. He sipped his water and looked around the room. “And I can live here.”

“Until- yeah. Until next month, when the rent is up.”

“Assuming you’ll be able to pay by yourself by then.”

Luke gave him a wounded look. “I guess, mate. Thanks for the confidence.”

Michael felt his own lips twitch in a half-hearted smile, hiding it behind his glass of water. Luke wasn’t all bad, it seemed. Well, personality-wise, of course; his looks had already spoken for themselves. Not that Michael was thinking about his looks.

Luke cleared his throat, drawing Michael’s attention. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, considering Michael with his blue, blue eyes. Michael forced himself to return Luke’s gaze. He couldn’t keep it up for long, though, and glanced down to fiddle with his hands, wishing he had the semblance of looking put-together. He knew he looked like shit and he didn’t like that Luke could see it so easily.

“If it convinces you to stay,” Luke started, in a small voice, “I did say I’d get you- like, whatever alcohol you want.” Michael’s eyes darted up - Luke actually looked concerned, like he was concerned about a dishevelled homeless loser with a crippling addiction to alcohol. Michael found it very hard to believe.

The offer made Michael’s throat dry. He kind of wished Luke hadn’t said anything - now, given the option, _yes_ , he did want some. Yes, he did want to feel normal again. Yes, he wanted something to calm his nervous tremors and skittish eyes, and he wanted to sit here without feeling every one of his heartbeats in his chest. He opened his mouth, and he fought with himself. He’d had this same war over and over again, innumerable times before, too many to remember. He’d gotten past the worst stage of withdrawal - but as always, the victory would soon fade, and he would be left feeling empty, like he wasn’t complete without a drink. And he’d forget about his ordeal soon enough and he’d fall right back into the cycle. It was all too familiar by now.

Luke stayed quiet, letting Michael think. Did he, or did he not? Was he going to break, or was he going to hold his ground?

A place to live, Michael remembered. He had a place to live, if Luke let him, for the next two weeks. 

Michael tried to speak, but no sound came out. He closed it and swallowed. He shook his head.

Luke raised his eyebrows. “I’m good, but thanks,” Michael managed to get out, as clarification. 

Luke’s expression read relief and a thoughtfulness that was too much for Michael to look at and feel peace, so Michael peered out the window, instead, at the building across the street and the tops of the traffic lights at the intersection. He didn’t realize his glass of water was empty until Luke reached over and held his hand out - Michael gave it to him and sat back as Luke went back into the kitchen to put it in the sink. He took a breath in, held it, and let it out. 

“I’m gonna need that money soon,” Luke reminded him. Michael looked up and saw him leaning against the countertop, arms crossed over his button-down.

Michael sighed and dug in his pocket. He came up with the two hundred in bills and tried not to feel resentful about giving it away. It was a reasonable price to pay for two weeks off the streets, and he _was_ grateful, but it still felt bad to hand over. Over his shoulder, Luke appeared with an envelope and took the money from Michael.

“So now we’re both broke.” Michael yawned. Shit, he really needed a shower. Oh- and- his job interview was today, at nine. He hadn’t planned on going, but now that he only had a total of about fifteen dollars to his name, there was nothing else he could do. Some form of motivation that was.

Michael heard Luke move to the door and start putting his shoes on. Luke seemed to have a taste in fashion a bit above his money bracket; he was wearing black boot cut jeans and shiny black dress shoes with his white button-down shirt. 

Luke caught Michael looking, and he waved the envelope by way of explanation. “I have to go down and give this to the front desk.” He didn’t seem that bothered about leaving Michael alone in his apartment, which freaked Michael out slightly. For some reason, Luke trusted him not to trash the place. Or Luke just hadn’t considered all the possible outcomes.

“Can I take a shower in your bathroom?” Michael asked, before Luke could go anywhere. 

Luke nodded and gestured at one of the doors along the wall. “Sure, yeah. The shower’s in there.” He looked like he wanted to add something more, but didn’t know how to say it. Michael took pity on him, but not enough to do anything about it. 

Luke nodded again, almost to himself. He slipped on a jacket, opened the front door, and pointed awkwardly down the hall, one foot over the threshold. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  
  


**3**

_You know my only wish is for a better life_

Michael didn’t have a phone. He realized this fact almost immediately after Luke left the room. Well, fuck - maybe the microwave had a clock on it. He was going to have to make his own way down to the Redfern Fruit Market at some point in the next hour, depending on how long had passed since he’d woken up and Luke had told him it was 7:30. Also, 7:30? Michael couldn’t remember waking up that early since he was fifteen, when he had to make it to the school’s morning jazz band practice. He had played trombone back then. He hadn’t picked up a trombone since. He also hadn’t picked up a phone since, what, last year? He was so bad at keeping his eye on his belongings and he never had enough money to justify buying another.

Sitting up straighter, Michael stretched out his legs. He toed his shoes off, then pulled his wet socks off, grimacing. He’d better get in the shower before Luke got back.

The bathroom was actually pretty nice. Michael’s assumptions about guys his age was based entirely on the highschool dropouts and miscellaneous potheads he’d met in his life - and Luke’s cleanliness, while not spectacular, was definitely better than he was used to. 

Michael tried to avoid looking at the mirror as a general rule. Of course, he hadn’t seen himself recently, aside from dark reflections in windows, so his eyes kept getting drawn to his appearance. His hair was, like usual, messy in a fucked-up sort of way that used to make some people ask _how did you get your hair to look like that?_ There was no trick. It just looked like that, for better or for worse. The bleach had grown about an inch out, and his dull brown roots were coming back in. 

Peeling off his shirt, Michael vowed to find another one. He had planned on wearing this one for the rest of the day, but it was foul and he was very adverse to the idea. He took his jeans off with less drama and piled everything on the floor before turning on the shower.

Life was kind of shit. It was kind of shitty that Michael didn’t really have a place to call his home. It was kind of shitty that Michael had thrown his future away when he was seventeen. It was kind of shitty that Michael had nothing, nobody to depend on, and was homeless at the age of twenty-three. It was very shitty that he had become so heavily dependent on alcohol, to a degree that was debilitating, and it was especially shitty that he, even standing in a warm shower for the first time in months, felt the empty coldness in his chest that could only be fixed by a drink. It was very fucked up, Michael thought, that despite the shower and the opportunity to live off the streets, nothing really mattered in the long run. He knew he was going to die and he knew his life would amount to jack shit.

And man, did he need a fucking drink, because he might as well live happy for however long he’d be alive for. If he died on the street as a nobody, his life would mean _something_. It would mean something in the way that it meant nothing to anybody - it would mean something because it would be imperfect and messy and fucking miserable, and wasn’t that kind of perfect, in its own way?

Michael heard the front door slam, jarring him out of his thoughts. He felt the voice of his rehab therapist creep into his mind, uninvited, telling him it was unhealthy to let himself think all of his negative thoughts. Well, that was too fucking bad, because he didn’t know how to stop.

After using minimal amounts of the 3-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-body wash, he got out of the shower. It was either that or Luke’s almost-empty bottles of some brand shampoo and conditioner, and Michael considered himself to be a reasonable guest, so he’d chosen the cheaper-looking option. He grabbed a grey towel off a rack behind the door. Drying himself off, Michael eyed the clothes he’d left on the floor.

There was a rustling at the bathroom door, and Michael froze, hoping the lock would keep. He heard Luke’s voice through the door a second later, sounding uncertain. “Do you want a change of clothes?”

Michael didn’t know what the correct answer was. Yes, he did, but wasn’t it kind of weird? Especially for two guys in their twenties - at least, Michael was 95% sure Luke was about the same age as him - to share clothes?

“Uh, sure,” Michael hedged. He wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the door an inch, leaning around it with his right shoulder. He wasn’t very comfortable showing off his entire torso to Luke.

“I got-” Luke stopped, eyes wide. He was looking at Michael’s arm. Oh, right- Michael had tattoos. Michael glanced down at his own arm, reminding himself what they looked like: two bands of black ink, one above his elbow and one below, and a symbol from a videogame he used to play between them. It wasn’t stare-worthy to him, but Luke sure seemed to think so.

“You got?” Michael prompted, repeating Luke’s words. Luke was holding a bundle of clothes.

Luke blinked and continued. “Yeah, I got a t-shirt, um, jeans, socks, if you want. It’s all clean. I didn’t know if you had… well, you didn’t have a bag, or anything.”

Michael held his hand out, trying not to raise his eyebrows that much. He couldn’t help it; he was surprised. Before he took the clothes, though, he paused and asked, “Are you sure?”

Luke nodded, eyes flickering between Michael’s face and his arm. “I don’t even wear these clothes anymore. Honestly, just keep them.”

Michael twisted his lips in a brief half-smile and took the bundle. Living with Luke wasn’t going to be that bad, he thought. If this was how Luke treated strangers, he was in for a pleasant two weeks.

A few minutes later, Michael came out of the bathroom, wearing a grey Nirvana t-shirt and black skinny jeans, looking for all the world like a teenager going to Warped Tour. Michael couldn’t imagine Luke ever wearing anything like this, with his refined style and long hair. He would have liked to see it, though. He was also surprised the shirt fit him; Luke had insanely broad shoulders, while Michael’s were used to sitting in a constant slump. 

Michael stood against the doorframe of the bathroom, slightly uncomfortable. Luke looked up from his phone, sitting on the couch, and gave Michael a tiny smile that Michael wasn’t totally sure happened, because it was over in a second.

“It’s just past eight.” Luke said. He started yawning, but stifled it quickly. “Do you have work today?”

“Yeah,” Michael half-lied, easily. “I should probably go now. I have to be there at nine.” He wasn’t looking forward to the walk down there. Of course, he could take the bus, but he preferred to save his meager fifteen dollars for an emergency.

“Are you hungry?” Luke asked, unexpectedly.

Michael looked at him, waiting for a follow-up. He was hungry, for sure, but he didn’t know what Luke was offering. He didn’t expect food to come with lodgings, and anyway, he was used to not having regular meals.

“Well, do you want cereal? I have a lot.” Luke said. Michael considered, then nodded his assent, a part of him feeling like he was overstepping his place. It definitely couldn’t hurt to eat some of Luke’s food. Well, it wouldn’t hurt Michael; Luke was taking the hit this round.

“Sure. Thanks,” Michael muttered.

Luke did have insane amounts of cereal in his apartment, and for no good reason, it seemed. Michael didn’t want to ask. Maybe there had been a sale, or something. There was milk in the fridge on which Michael caught Luke eyeing the expiry date, which was for the day after tomorrow. Michael wondered how much money Luke actually made.

Luke didn’t have cereal with him, and after he’d gotten the milk and showed Michael the bowls and cutlery cabinets in the kitchen, he disappeared into his bedroom.

A few minutes later, Michael put his bowl in the sink. Luke had come back to the couch and was swiping through his phone. Michael felt a flicker of envy.

He went to the door and picked up his wet shoes, wrinkling his nose, turning his thoughts away from Luke. This was going to be a shitty walk. And a shitty day. He’d always hated doing job interviews - he’d done more than his fair share. This one, though: he kind of had to nail this one in order to keep up the lie for Luke. Even though he’d already paid rent, meaning he was pretty much locked in for a few weeks, he still wanted to… well, he didn’t know exactly what he wanted. He wanted to have some control over his life, he supposed. And… there was a chance he could stay longer, if he played his cards right.

“Bye, roommate,” Luke called when Michael reached for the doorknob. Luke had his phone in one hand and was giving Michael an awkward finger-gun gesture in the other. That paired with his stupid half-smile had Michael rolling his eyes and suppressing a snort.

“See you, Luke.”

“Wait! Keys.” Luke rummaged in his pocket and sat up to throw them to Michael. 

Michael caught them, surprised. “Only one set? And don’t you need them?”

“I think I lost the backup pair.” Luke waved his hand with a bit of a wince. “And, well, I’ll be here all day. You know. Self employed,” he added, self-deprecation edging his voice.

Michael gave him a thin-lipped smile, grateful, but wondering. Luke just gave away his apartment keys to a stranger. What the fuck? How was he not worried about Michael taking them and leaving? How lucky was Michael, to have come across such an absurdly trusting, weirdly sweet, and admittedly attractive stranger? Luke’s hospitality was jarring.

He really hoped he was going to get this job.

Michael slipped on his black windbreaker and left the apartment without any more fuss.

It was a good thing Michael was so used to navigating without a map, because he was going to have to find Redfern Fruit Market without one. Michael slipped the key into his pocket as he left the small lobby on the ground floor and went out into the grey morning.

The Aspect was on the corner of a block. It seemed to be close to the border between the nicer, cleaner Sydney and the older, poorer Sydney - and it was on the bad side, of course. Wells Street, the one-way road that Michael had met Luke on last night, intersected with the bigger and busier Regent Street. He knew his way around Regent Street better than he wanted to. Regent Street was the first place he’d tried to get help for his addiction - a little place called The Odyssey probably still had psych evaluation records with his name scrawled on. _Michael Clifford, age 19._ He hadn’t been back since. At least, he mused, waiting at a red light, the fruit market was a shorter distance from Luke’s hotel - so when he got the job, he wouldn’t have to walk past the rehab facility every day.

Michael felt his eyes wandering to the shopfronts. Most of them were closed before nine in the morning. The roads were fairly busy, and there were cyclists out causing mayhem at intersections, but the sidewalks were relatively empty. Dew collected on metal sign posts. Michael would have loved to say he was feeling good - it wouldn’t have been that hard to lie, because his body felt clean and his clothes were nicer than he was used to, but he still had a headache, and his joints were starting to feel strangely weak from all this walking, and the cold hole in his chest was still empty and tugging. Physical symptoms of withdrawal might have been over but the dry pull of his addiction remained. 

After the interview, Michael promised himself he’d try to hold off for a bit longer. He couldn’t drink before the interview, because he’d never get a job (he knew from hard-earned experience), but he feared for his self-control after. He knew - he had been told, so many times, that life was better without being hooked on alcohol. Everyone had told him that in rehab, and everyone who knew him from highschool, upon seeing him again, managed to tell him that, too. He _knew_. He knew, supposedly, that life could be so much better if he was sober. He knew, but he didn’t understand how anyone could tell him that with so much conviction. Life was a fucking nightmare, and alcohol took the edge off. 

A part of Michael, bigger than he was willing to admit, hated alcohol, because he thought, just maybe, life would have been better if he hadn’t gotten hooked. Maybe he could have built a decent life from the rubble of his teenage self. 

Thinking about his teenage years never failed to make Michael despise his parents a little more each time. Maybe if he hadn’t grown up ignored, made to watch TV and sit at home alone while his parents were at work or at golf or at business parties, he’d have turned out better. Fucking hell, was he really going to spend the morning thinking about his past? He choked down the urge for a drink and bit his tongue. He was almost at Redfern Fruit Market - it was coming up on the next block.

The air was cold on Michael’s face, and he breathed it in. His hands were cold, but he didn’t tuck them into his pockets - instead, he flexed his knuckles, rubbing his fingers together, hoping to distract himself and test the strength of his hands. In his almost-damp shoes, his feet were warm, and his legs were warmer, too, because finally he was wearing jeans without holes in them that also managed to hug his legs almost perfectly. He was going to have to find some way to pay Luke back for the clothes. 

  
  


**4**

_Because these hills have eyes and I got paranoia_

The sign above the door said _Fruit Market_ in a painfully lively font. The door was closed when he had spotted the building a block away, but apparently they opened at nine, because someone was unlocking the door as he approached. It was a grey-haired woman who gave Michael a blank look through her cat-eye glasses. She went to the cashiers’ desk, not sparing Michael another glance when he pushed through the door and stood under the glaring LEDs in the market.

Michael knew right off the bat he was going to hate working here. There were vats of fruit, most of it looking old and overripe save for one tray at the front, and the radio was turned on to a cheery bubblegum-pop station that played tinny music over the store speakers. He stifled a sigh and looked around for a manager.

“Are you nine o’ clock? The interview?” A voice asked, businesslike, behind him. He turned and saw a middle-aged man with beady eyes and a toothy smile wave at him from the far wall, in front of a half-open door. 

“Yeah,” Michael said, shortly, but with spirit. He plastered on a smile and moved closer. “You’re the manager?”

The man grinned, eerily enthusiastic, and nodded. “I am. Well. Come on in.”

Michael followed him into the office. It was small and lit by a long slat window in the outside wall. The air smelled like printer ink, paper, and dust, with a hint of decay masked by a distinctly fruity scent. The man sat down behind a small desk and gestured for Michael to pull up a chair and sit across from him. Michael did, without comment, face frozen in an easy smile.

The man shifted a few papers around on his desk, humming to himself, before he found the one he was looking for. He held his hand out for Michael to shake.

“The name’s Paul,” the man said. 

“Michael.”

“I see that. I have a reference from… Saint Vincent Rehabilitation Clinic.” As Paul was reading from the form, Michael could see his expression falter. Michael felt a burst of bitterness. Not only was he going to have to convince Paul he was a good fit for the job, he was also going to have to convince Paul he wasn’t some hopeless addict. He should have anticipated this.

“Well. I see your resume is… extensive.” Paul didn’t seem so excited about that fact. Michael waited for him to continue. He hadn’t actually seen his resume since - well, a month ago, when he last spoke to his rehab therapist about being employed. He remembered taking a short glance at what she’d outlined for him and handing it back with a nod, not having read most of it, and not really caring to discuss his future for longer than he had to. 

Paul gave him an appraising look. “Eight part-time jobs in the last year alone. Each of them you’ve held for… a week or two at most.”

Why the hell was that on his resume? He should have cut all the dates when he had the chance. Well, fuck, and fuck his rehab therapist for setting him up like this. A week ago, she was all positive about getting him an interview.

“I’m settling down now,” Michael supplied, trying to keep the desperate edge off his voice. “The other jobs - they didn’t - none of them were a good fit for me.”

“And this one is?”

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it. There was literally nothing he could draw on to convince Paul he thought working at a fucking fruit market was a good fit for him. He was a highschool dropout with a shitty track record in employment and he didn’t have any hobbies that didn’t include getting drunk out of his fucking mind.

But he had to get the job. He needed it.

“Sir, I have a more permanent… setup, now. I can promise that-” Paul flipped the resume over with a loud noise. Michael took his cue and stopped talking. 

“Michael, I can see that you have qualifications, and that you say you have commitment.” He said ‘commitment’ at length. “I hope you understand I can’t gamble on this company. I hope you understand I need to be completely sure that my employees will be loyal.”

Silently, behind a tight smile, Michael seethed.

“With that being said, Michael.” Paul stood up. “Thank you for coming in today. I wish you luck in your future.”

“I need this job,” Michael let slip out. “I-” He cut himself off, abruptly. He looked up at Paul, who was raising his eyebrows.

“I’ve made my decision,” Paul said, with finality. Michael bit down on his tongue.

Minutes later, on the sidewalk outside the Redfern Fruit Market, Michael thought about not going back to Luke’s apartment. He could easily cross a street or two over and get on a bus with his little remaining money and never look back.

Luke’s apartment key burned in his pocket.

“Fuck,” Michael said, angrily, glancing back to make sure he was out of sight of the market. He found himself beside a telephone pole and pressed his knuckles, hard, into the wood, the staples from years of advertising digging into his skin. “Fuck.”

Not only was he definitely, irreparably broke, but he was going to have to tell Luke he’d lied. The fact he was broke was much worse, in perspective. Luke technically couldn’t do anything to him for lying. Michael had already paid for his time in Luke’s apartment, anyway, so he was invincible on that front. Supposedly. Michael didn’t know if gentleman’s rules applied for his and Luke’s situation.

Michael didn’t have anywhere to go, and he didn’t have anything to do, so he walked down Regent Street, thinking. The sidewalk was pale and cracked in places, and every now and then a bus or a motorcycle or a muscle car screamed down the road, making him look up. The sun was still trying to burn away the cloud cover far above him. Michael breathed in the exhaust fumes, the menagerie of scents from just-opened stores he passed, and the cool hint of the breeze; he absorbed the clanging of construction down the road, the tick of bicycle chains, the rumble of car engines, and the buzz of pedestrians. 

Michael found a familiar sidestreet and ducked down it, off the main road. He felt he could breathe easier in the quiet. 

Maybe a drink was a good idea around now, Michael thought. It wasn’t like he had any plans, and, well, he knew where all the 7/11s and all the convenience and grocery stores were, so it wouldn’t be that hard to just…

Fifteen dollars, Michael warned himself. That’s all the money he had. He tried to forget that he could, and definitely had before, shoplifted vodka. They kept it in tiny bottles; it almost wasn’t his fault. But he hadn’t shoplifted liquor in about a year, if he recalled correctly, and even then it was nothing like the organized theft and various other crimes that he had been a part of two years ago. Michael had, in loose terms, been a part of a gang for at least eight months. He didn’t like to think about it much.

Michael was on the far end of the sidestreet. The skyline opened up above a massive fenced-in football field. On the other side of the road, a woman was walking her dog under the shade of the trees. Michael watched her for a minute. He might not have to be legally employed to make some money - maybe he could ask around the neighbourhood and see if anyone wanted him to walk their dog. He was endlessly skeptical, but he might as well give it a try. Great. Nothing was more motivating than apathy.

\---

If Michael had a watch, he might have noticed the hours passing. He spent twenty minutes laying on a bench, regaining the strength in his tired legs. He spent another twenty walking to a bus station and paying a dollar and a half to take a bus to Surry Hills, a much richer district than Redfern. In Surry Hills, the sun came out, and while he was hopeful at the beginning, he was quickly let down. Michael walked the neighbourhood with an increasing feeling of abject redundancy. With tiredness, some of his jitters were back, and he was almost thankful that he’d dumped himself in an unfamiliar neighbourhood so he wasn’t that tempted to end his sobriety. His mouth felt dry and the hole in his chest was aching. 

The entire journey had been a waste, however; most houses were gated, and nobody answered the door when he knocked. He grew more and more hesitant to approach houses. Eventually, sometime in the afternoon, he sat down on a park bench next to a stranger.

“Where’s the closest grocery store?” Michael asked. The stranger shot him a puzzled look and took a moment to answer.

“Hurry down Cherry avenue, there’s a Cole’s on the right, I think,” she said. She sat uncomfortably even when Michael gave her a ‘thanks’ and a smile, only relaxing when he stood up and walked away.

A bus pulled up on the street in front of Michael when he was on the way to Cole’s. Some buried part of Michael kicked in and led him astray from his planned route - he found himself on the bus, watching the Cole’s grocery store pass by. The rest of Michael made him hit his head against the window with a low thud in frustration. At least, he thought, dully, he still had enough self-control to stop himself. The ever-present itch was familiar enough that he could ignore it to some degree. 

For Michael, addiction wasn’t an overwhelming need that flooded his brain. It wasn’t a life of death choice. It was just the knowledge that he’d feel so, so much better about being alive when he was under the influence, and sometimes his mind felt so caged and empty and broken that the only way he could live with himself was when everything was dulled. Of course, over time, his brain had become so used to it that without it, he was jumpy and anxious. He felt sick off the unnecessary adrenaline in his system, not clear-headed. It was this kind of panicky adrenaline he fought to get rid of.

Michael recalled something his rehab therapist had told him over and over. With the correct treatment, and perseverance, alcoholism is treatable and one day he would be able to live without it. In her attempts at motivation, she often managed to leave out the fact it would take months of being clean and having therapy. She did recommend that if he couldn’t trust himself to stay clean, he should find someone to keep him on track. His parents were of course her first suggestion, but Michael knew he didn’t mean shit to his parents. He had nobody. It had always been like that for him. 

It was late afternoon when Michael got back to The Aspect. He was buzzing with strange anxiety, a constant reminder of his addiction, and his legs were sore. His hair fell into his eyes and he swiped it away. The only thing keeping him sober was the responsibility tied to the key in his pocket and the hopes of sleeping on a sofa tonight instead of the hard ground. Michael tried to think up something to tell Luke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part titles in this act:
> 
> Glass Houses by Machine Gun Kelly  
> One Song Glory from Rent (the musical)  
> 30 by Badflower  
> I Think I'm Okay by Machine Gun Kelly and Yungblud


	2. ACT II

**5**

_ Is it worth it can you even hear me? _

Michael hesitated over the door, not knowing whether or not he should knock. The lack of windows in the hall gave him a strange feeling of timelessness. He took the key out of his pocket and rubbed it with his thumb, down the edge of the teeth, and then slipped it into the lock with a sigh. He turned it with a hard click and pushed the door open, stepping inside.

“Hey?” Luke’s voice called, somewhere from behind his closed bedroom door. 

A moment later, Luke’s door opened, and he appeared. “Hi,” Michael replied. He shut the hallway door behind him and took his windbreaker off, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he did it. Luke was standing in the doorway to his room - his fingers were brushing the frame, a little awkwardly, like he didn’t know where to stand. Ridiculous, Michael thought. This was Luke’s apartment. Michael should be the one feeling awkward.

Michael took his shoes off and went to the couch to sit down. He hadn’t shared a living space with another person for a while, but he was definitely used to it; after less than a day in Luke’s apartment, he was comfortable enough to take up space.

“How was work?” Luke asked, politely. Michael looked up at him and noticed he had traded his white dress shirt from this morning for a hoodie and jeans. It was weirdly domestic. Michael glanced away and searched for the TV remote, thinking of ways to respond.

“Uh,” Michael said, vaguely. He was cut off by another of Luke’s questions.

“Where do you work? I don’t think you mentioned…” 

“Actually, I don’t have a job,” Michael said, pulling his best  _ oops, sorry _ expression at the blank TV. He shrugged, not quite meeting Luke’s eyes, but all too aware of his silence. A hint of unwelcome shame twinged in his heart. He crushed it down with apathy.

“Oh,” Luke said, sounding disappointed. “Alright.”

Michael took a deep breath in and dug around for the remote between the sofa cushions. It had to be here somewhere. He ignored Luke’s distantly condescending presence in the doorway and kept digging.

Of course Luke didn’t go back into his room and leave it at that. “What did you do all day, then?”

Michael scowled, turning his face away, and then shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Michael, Jesus Christ,” Luke said, impatiently. “If we’re going to be living together for two weeks, you might as well tell me about your day. We might as well get to know each other a bit.”

Michael pulled a face. Luke pinched the bridge of his nose in obvious exasperation. Michael almost felt bad for egging him on like this, but he didn’t like Luke’s insistence. And anyways, it was funny to wind him up like this.

“I don’t know anything about you,” Luke told him, almost bitterly. He shook his head and muttered, barely loud enough for Michael to hear him. “... and you lied about having a job, now we’re both broke, I shouldn’t have let you stay, goddamn it.”

_ Lied about having a job.  _ Yeah, he had - what did it matter? Why did Luke regret offering Michael a place to stay because of that?

“What was that?” Michael asked at full volume.

Luke looked up, and stubborn irritation flickered across his face. “I said, I shouldn’t have let you stay.” At least he was honest.

“What, because I’m unemployed?” Michael shot back. He sensed a fight was coming, and he was totally here for it. He was angry and he was going to take it out on whoever volunteered. “So I’m not worthy of the same chances? Is that what you’re saying?”

Luke’s eyes narrowed and his mouth took on an ugly twist. “No, I didn’t say that.”

“But you wouldn’t have offered this to me if I told you I didn’t have a job.”

“Yeah, well, if you have a job, that means you’re trying. You know? Trying not to be homeless.”

A spark flickered to life, angry, in Michael’s heart. “Everyone’s trying not to be fucking homeless!”

“It means you have potential! To- become, like, part of society again! I’m not trying to attack you, Jesus, it’s just now you’re- you’re not even- do you even want to do something with your life?”

“Fucking hell,” Michael snarled. Wanting to do something with his life? Life was meaningless - time and time again it was proved to him.

Luke raised his hands in the air, palms bared. “Well, I’m just saying, that’s what it looks like if you don’t have a job!”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

Michael almost felt Luke roll his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re right about that.”

A surge of anger overtook Michael’s chest, and he suddenly felt lethal, as if he was made of sharp edges and jagged spikes and broken glass, not flesh and blood. “So you think people who don’t want to do something important with their lives don’t deserve- If I don’t want to do something fucking special with my life, I’m not worth helping?”

“Goddamnit, Michael!” Luke was getting visibly upset, and Michael took savage pleasure in it.

“So what if I’m not fucking employed, Luke!”

“You know what - it doesn’t fucking matter. Forget it!”

“So what if my life means nothing? From here, it doesn’t look like yours is going anywhere, either!”

Luke took a harsh breath, as if he was going to start up again, but he didn’t say anything. He stood there, hand gripping the doorframe, mouth tight, eyebrows drawn over his angry eyes. They sized each other up. Michael hadn’t anticipated that he was going to hit a nerve - but now that he had, he became the picture of satisfied contempt, and he let his gaze rest heavily on Luke’s face in a silent challenge.

“Fuck you, Michael,” Luke said, shaking his head. He let out a frustrated sigh and looked out the window. A second passed, then Luke turned around and went back into his room, shutting the door behind him with a resounding click. Michael put the image of Luke’s cold blue glare and the sharp line of his mouth out of his mind.

Well. Now Michael was alone.

He resumed his search for the TV remote. A minute later, he found it on the floor beside the couch, obscured from above by the armrest. He picked it up and didn’t allow himself to think, turning on the TV and scrolling through a very limited selection of cable, settling on a world news channel. The horrific global disasters he was faced with on the news made him feel shittier than he already did, so he quickly switched to a sports network. The familiar drone of commentary made it too easy for Michael to zone out and start thinking.

It was true Luke didn’t know anything about him. The reasonable part of Michael’s brain agreed with Luke - they  _ should _ get to know each other a bit. After all, they were living together. Some part of Michael wanted to know more about Luke. He was so different from everyone else he knew.

But that wasn’t what he had a problem with. He had a problem with the other part of what Luke had been saying. 

_ No.  _ Luke had been right, sort of. Michael had seen firsthand the kind of people society rejected - he was one of them, after all. Some of them made an effort to climb. Some of them sank ever farther. Michael had been the latter kind, once, and for a long time, too. It was only last year he started working his way out of the pit. He’d gotten jobs, he just didn’t hold them down. He’d gone to therapy, and rehab, he’d just… hadn’t stayed. But hell, he’d  _ tried _ . He sure as hell fucking tried. Luke didn’t have the right to tell him he wasn’t trying.

Honestly, if it had been completely up to him, Michael would have never gotten out. He owed that much to his pothead ex-girlfriend convincing him to go to rehab late last year. To try it out again, and someplace new, she’d said, because she knew he had a thing against The Odyssey. She had dumped him a few weeks later, but the rehab stuck. It might have had something to do with how he had been homeless when she dumped him, and rehab was the only place he was offered a place to stay overnight. As it was, for the next few months, Michael began sleeping there until he got sick of it. He moved to the street when he did, until it made him pick up a cold, and then went back-and-forth from there. He’d flickered a lot between sober and drunk in those days. 

Those days had ended the day before yesterday, when Michael had left for the millionth time, thinking he was going to head straight back when he got tired of living outside. Instead, he’d found a desperate stranger on the sidewalk of Wells Street.

Now he was in a state of both climbing and sinking. He wasn’t employed. He wasn’t going to therapy. He wasn’t locked in rehab. But he was also sober, and he had a place to live. That had to count for something in the eyes of  _ trying _ . He was trying to get out. Was he? Was he trying to do anything more than keep his body alive, if only because he was too spiteful and tired to let himself waste away? Was this trying to get out, or was this just… being alive, unmoving, unchanging? Frozen in a stasis chamber, sleeping, unable to wake up, but also unable to die? 

Fuck, Michael thought. 

There were only two ways to go: up or down. Somehow he wasn’t going down, but he didn’t think he was going up, either. A place to live, he reminded himself. Even if life was complete shit, at least he was comfortable. This was worth living for, if nothing else.

_ I’m not suicidal _ . Michael felt the words, strong, in his head. Well, he wasn’t - he’d gone through psych evaluations, and he wasn’t  _ suicidal _ , per se, that was never a word the therapists had used, but they’d thrown around  _ depressed  _ enough that Michael had almost started expecting them to. But he didn’t feel like he was depressed all the time, either, just sometimes. 

That summed up a lot of his emotions. He wasn’t depressed a lot. Just sometimes. He wasn’t happy a lot - just sometimes. The only thing he felt was constant was an underlying heat of something like anger, and maybe frustration, too - but this, as well, faded when he was drunk. When he was sober, though, injustice, bad fortune, and nihilism combined was a hell of an incentive for subliminal rage.

Michael tasted bitterness at the back of his mouth, still feeling the words he’d spat to Luke.  _ Doesn’t look like your life is amounting to anything, either. _ He didn’t feel especially guilty, or apologetic, even; he only felt a certain kind of low-grade regret. Like he’d forgotten to bring a project to school and now he was going to fail it, and even if he didn’t give that much of a shit about it, it was still a weight on his shoulders. Despite not having eaten since breakfast, he wasn’t hungry. He felt the familiar dull anxious pulse creep through his body and tried to focus on the TV to take his mind off everything.

  
  


**6**

_ I’m a broken stereo, out of time _

Michael didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was getting dark outside. Luke still hadn’t come out of his bedroom, and Michael was starting to judge him for it - not like he was being any more mature. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, and even though his alcohol cravings had subsided in their intensity, he felt his self-restraint wearing thin again. 

The view out of Luke’s apartment was southbound, so if there had been a sunset occurring, Michael couldn’t see it. He knew it was about 6:30, if the sun was setting, because winter was nearly in full force in Sydney and the days were short. He didn’t think about how he’d get by when Luke kicked him out after his weeks were up - he didn’t want to have to live on the streets or in rehab again. Maybe he’d make an effort to maintain a job this time and find a cheap apartment on the even shittier side of Redfern to carve a life into. Or maybe he’d take up theft again and sleep on some crackhead’s couch with his face in a bottle of vodka. So many possibilities.

Yawning, Michael turned the TV on mute and rubbed his eyes. He was getting cold in his - Luke’s - t-shirt, and he took the blanket off the back of the couch, remembering it from the morning, and covered himself with it, sitting on his feet to keep them warm. He looked out the window into the grey-blue, quickly dimming sky, and wondered how long he’d be able to take being sober. 

Michael heard Luke’s door click open a moment before he heard Luke’s voice. Luke spoke quietly, matching the silence in the main room, but he kept a bit of an edge to his words that Michael could have done without.

“Hi. What are you watching?”

Michael shrugged. The volume was off, and Michael’s voice had gone with it.

“Okay.” Luke said, sounding frustrated, after a long pause. Michael sighed through his nose, kind of hoping Luke would just go away for a while. It wasn’t fair, really, because it was Luke’s apartment, but Michael felt like he’d earned the right to sit on the couch in peace.

Luke shook his head. Michael watched his blond curls fall against the sides of his face. He looked away when Luke glanced at him again.

Luke went into the kitchen and out of Michael’s line of sight. Michael heard him opening and closing the fridge, the cupboards, and everything felt too real. The couch was too solid under him. The blood running through his veins was uncomfortably  _ there _ . The hum of the too-cold air conditioning was paired incongruently with the whirr of a vacuum cleaner a floor or two above. He despised the feeling.

Michael stood up too quickly and froze in place for a moment, waiting for his head to stop spinning. His feet were cold again.

“I don’t suppose you want dinner?” Luke asked. He was hovering over a pot on the tiny stove, gesturing at Michael stiffly with a wooden spoon. 

Michael didn’t know how to respond. “Aren’t you broke?”

Luke turned around again and gave him a light grimace. “Well, I still have to eat. Don’t you?”

Luke wasn’t looking at him anymore, but Michael shrugged anyway. He watched the back of Luke’s hoodie, letting his eyes trail across the curls on Luke’s head, shining a silvery-white in the strange, moody light coming from the TV and the window. 

Luke sighed, long and hard, and didn’t turn around. Michael braced himself, and Luke started talking. “Okay. Um, I’m sorry, earlier, that I implied you-”

Michael cleared his throat loudly, cutting him off. He didn’t want to hear Luke’s apology. He didn’t care that they had even gotten mad at each other. The only thing he regretted was taking out his pent-up pissed-off mood on the one person who’d shown him any kindness, voluntarily, for months. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael said.

Luke looked over his shoulder, then away again.

“Sorry,” Michael added, the word coming out forced. He fucking hated apologies. He fucking hated feeling the need to apologize. Druggies and stoners were so much easier to deal with; Michael could have had a shouting match with one of his old acquaintances and end up throwing punches to finish it off, only to have them both forget about it a few minutes later. It had been so, so much easier, living with the rejects. Michael ached for the shitty, pointless, spiteful feeling in the pit of his stomach, tempered to insane hilarity by anger and carelessness. Something had been so freeing about not giving a shit, ever. 

He felt trapped by his apology, and waited, thin-lipped, cold, pissed-off, for Luke to acknowledge it. Luke nodded. A second later, he turned around at the stove, and he gave Michael a smile. Michael released a held breath and returned it with far less enthusiasm, but returned it nonetheless.

“So, you’re hungry, right?” Luke said. “I’m making some-” he put the spoon down and picked up a can beside the stove. It had a bright red label. “Tomato… and chicken soup. Sounds shitty, I know. Do you want some?”

“Sure.” Michael knew that even if he wasn’t hungry he would still feel better if he ate. He also didn’t think he had the ability to turn down free food.

Michael stretched his arms and shoved his hands through his hair, pushing it off and beside his face, trying to relax. He had goosebumps on his arms from the air conditioner. It wasn’t helping his already nearly trembling body, but he tried to ignore it for now. The light from the window was fading. Luke turned on the ceiling lights in the kitchen, and it basked the shitty grey laminate countertops in pale gold. 

Michael stood, unmoving, in the kitchen, feeling cold tile under his feet and dim buzzing in his ears until he realized he should probably offer to help. 

“Is there anything I can…?”

“Bowls,” Luke said, pointing at a drawer. He held out the soup can for Michael to take. “And here, throw this out. Under the sink.”

Dutifully, Michael went to the sink and opened the cabinet. There was a bin for garbage and a box for bottles and cans. Michael’s eyes caught on the box; there was an empty bottle of wine. Michael’s mouth went dry, and he remembered what Luke had told him last night - he didn’t have any alcohol, apparently - and Michael wondered if that was true. 

_ No _ . Michael was sure it was true. This bottle had to have been left over from before Michael had arrived. Luke probably didn’t have any more liquor. He didn’t have any more. And it would be a horrible invasion of privacy if Michael went through his cabinets trying to find it. 

Michael stood up quickly and rinsed out the can, the water cold over his hands, making his fingers numb. He put the can under the sink.

“When’d you get the tattoo?” Luke asked, as soon as they were sitting down at the square kitchen table. Michael glanced down at his arm, then narrowed his eyes.

“A while ago. How old are you?”

Luke seemed taken aback, but shook it off quickly. “That’s a terrible answer. I’m twenty-three. How old are  _ you? _ ” 

“Twenty-three.” They met each other’s eyes, briefly. There was an inexplicable camaraderie that came with sharing an age; Michael didn’t know how to describe it. He looked away from Luke’s bright, considering blue eyes, and ate some of his soup. It wasn’t that good. He tried not to let it show on his face.

“Where did you grow up?” Luke obviously intended well, but the reminder of Michael’s early life had him clenching his teeth.

“What is this, 21 questions?” He hoped the tone of his comment would be biting enough to deter Luke.

Luke snorted. “This isn’t a date. You know what, it’s fine, let’s just sit here in silence for a while.”

Oh, right. 21 questions was the date game. Michael hadn’t had a dating life in, like, ever. The only reason he had been in relationships with people was so he had a place to live and someone to have regular sex with - and dating wasn’t a necessity for the kind of people he formed relationships with. It was too much of a bother: getting to know each other, going out to expensive dinners all dressed up, watching movies in dark, overpriced theatres. 

Maybe Michael was somewhat desperate for friends, or something like that, because he wanted to talk to Luke. Nobody had cared to ask about him before. 

“My full name is Michael Clifford,” he started, watching Luke out of the corner of his eye. “I used to live in Newtown, I went to highschool there. I had a dog when I was growing up.”

Luke was nodding. “Cool. I went to highschool in Annandale. That’s kind of close.” Michael felt Luke’s eyes on his face, and he instinctively angled his head away to hide behind his hair. Then he became frustrated with his self-consciousness and looked back up, lips tight, fingers loose around his spoon.

Luke took a sip of the soup and winced. He caught Michael’s narrowed gaze and shrugged. “It tastes bad, I know. I had it last night, too,” he said, trailing off into a mutter, “...and the night before.” He cleared his throat. “What was your dog’s name?”

“Pirate,” Michael replied. He’d named it when he was five. It had died when he was fourteen. 

“Oh, that’s cool,” Luke said, but emphasizing the  _ cool _ with a tone that conveyed he meant it. He genuinely, actually meant it, and Michael didn’t know what to think. “My parents have a dog called Romeo. It’s a really stupid-looking chihuahua.”

Michael felt his eyebrows raise, and the corner of his mouth tugged upwards. “All chihuahuas look stupid.” Also,  _ Romeo? _

Luke’s face broke into a smile, and Michael felt a strange sense of accomplishment. “Okay, that’s true.”

The conversation flowed easily for the next few minutes. They talked about pets, highschool sports teams - none of which Michael had been a part of, but apparently Luke had played football and volleyball. He told Michael he’d been terrible at football, and pretty good at volleyball; however since he played on the girls’ team for volleyball, because there was no boys’ team at his school, he couldn’t pursue it farther than Year 10. Michael gathered he was still vaguely upset over this. 

“But the question is, how tall were you in Year 10,” Michael said. “That’s gotta have something to do with it.”

Luke laughed, agreed, and they talked about more sports until Luke ran out of things to say. They started to eat their soup faster when Luke warned Michael it got worse with cold. Michael definitely was not loving the cheap chicken-and-tomato combo, but it warmed him up adequately and filled his stomach. As soon as he’d finished, he started to feel comfortably tired. It was faint and very unfamiliar, but there nonetheless.

Lapsing even farther into silence, Michael and Luke tidied up after dinner. Michael’s mouth felt dry, no matter how much water he drank, and his brain was thinking too fast, but his body was slow with exhaustion. He felt like he had gotten no rest at all. In a way, he hadn’t, because he had been ticking with borderline anxiety all day and he didn’t know how to stop it. 

He and Luke ended up on the couch, Michael under his blanket, and Luke somehow not being cold. Michael always felt cold, even when he wasn’t sitting in a room like this one with too-high air conditioning and only a t-shirt. 

“Thanks,” Michael told the quiet room. The TV was on, but low volume, and Luke was occupied on his phone. 

Michael felt Luke look up next to him, and watched from his peripheral vision as the light from the TV reflected in Luke’s eyes. He really was quite pretty, Michael realized, the thought coming into his head unbidden. He cast it away. He didn’t need more complications in his life.

Luke wore a contented expression. “You’re welcome.” 

“Do you still want to know what I did today?” It was an olive branch Michael decided to offer, for lack of tangible gratitude. 

Luke’s hand stilled on his phone, and he raised his eyebrows, still staring at something on Instagram. Michael watched his face. He wished he had a phone. He wished he had income, he wished he had more clothes than the ones on his back, he wished he had an apartment, he wished he’d had an untroubled childhood, he wished he had a life. The jealousy struck him suddenly and in more places than he’d been expecting.

“Do I?” Luke asked, joking, as if Michael was going to tell him something incriminating.

Michael felt a cold brick slot into his head. He looked away. “Nah, not really.”

Luke nodded with a smile and went back to his phone. Michael drew a long, heavy, internal breath, and stared at the dark wall behind the TV, wishing he was alone.

  
  


**7**

_ It’s 3 AM and I’m lonely _

Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t much to do in a small apartment when neither occupant had any money, motivation, or, apparently, outside connections. Michael had kind of expected Luke to have friends in the complex, maybe some he could invite over for a movie, but no such luck. There was no Netflix, no stolen arcade cabinet propped in the corner, no bags of chips and empty bottles littering the floor, none of the insane losers Michael was used to being around to convince him to make molotov cocktails. The air was too still to handle. 

It was getting later, probably going on nine or nine-thirty, when Luke stood up and announced he was “going to be back soon.” Michael didn’t ask for him to elaborate, only pointed to where he’d left the keys and kept his disinterested stare on the TV. Luke closed the door with a heavy click and Michael was sitting on the couch by himself.

Feeling childish and unwatched, as if he was thirteen as his parents had left him home alone, he stood up and muted the TV. The hum of the air conditioning was enough noise for now. He rubbed his eyes and dropped the blanket on the couch to go into the kitchen.

“Don’t,” Michael warned himself, out loud. Luke said he’d be back shortly, which meant he could open the door and find Michael any second. Still.

Michael was seized with a nervous hurry, not wanting Luke to find him digging through the kitchen cupboards. He leapt into action - he checked the overhead cabinets, the fridge, the drawers and the cabinets under the counter. He didn’t find any alcohol. He found a lot of cereal and some canned food, but other than that, not much. The kitchen was barren. 

With a heavy sigh, Michael leaned against the counter. 

Standing alone in a half-lit apartment at some indiscernible time of night, with the air conditioner chugging along despite the quickly cooling outside weather, Michael felt and heard too much of everything. His hair, flat against his forehead and the back of his neck, itched. The old t-shirt Luke had given him felt foreign on his skin. The cheap imitation marble countertop was cold and hard under his hands. The hum of the AC was an insistent drone, ever reminiscent of the cargo trains that bypassed Redfern on the hourly. Thanks to Michael’s year or so on the Redfern streets, the endless train sounds had retreated from the forefront of his mind, but the AC was new and unfamiliar and it made his teeth grit. His feet were cold on the kitchen tiles. No alcohol in the cabinets, no carelessness tucked away in a bottle somewhere he could toss down to forget about his worries. There was no sanity to be had in Luke’s apartment.

Michael shoved a hand into his hair, pulling it up, off his face, away from his neck. It was far too long, he decided. And- well- he knew where the scissors were, of course, he’d torn apart the entire kitchen a few minutes ago. Without thinking too hard, Michael swiped the scissors from a drawer and went into the bathroom.

The bathroom smelled nice. It smelled like the soap Michael had used in the shower that morning, and it smelled faintly of something a little more; something strangely  _ Luke _ that Michael couldn’t quite put a finger on. It must have been the cologne he’d been wearing at some point. Michael opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, just to see what was back there, and scanned the contents quickly. Nothing stood out to him.

Eyeing himself in the mirror, Michael held up the scissors. They were kind of shit; the blades were set too far apart. This was going to be a struggle.

He met his own gaze in the light of the dim halogen fixture. It was really, really fucking cold in the bathroom. Michael cut an inch of his hair off and watched it fall into the sink, realizing he knew fuck-all about cutting hair. 

Pieces of bleached hair fell faster as Michael started caring less. It didn’t look that bad, which maybe shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise, because when his hair looked that fucked beforehand there weren’t many directions to go but up. Every few snips Michael scrubbed a hand through his work to shake out the loose pieces. He really needed to dye the roots again. Or maybe he’d let the brown grow out for the first time since he was twelve, because it wasn’t like he could pay for bleach, anyway.

Michael heard the apartment door close quietly and froze. He’d almost forgotten Luke was coming back. 

The bathroom door was half-open, so when Luke stepped farther into the room, peering towards the couch, looking for Michael, it didn’t take long for him to realize the bathroom light was on. Michael met his gaze, scissors in his right hand, his bleached hair scattered on the bathroom floor.

“Uh.” Luke said.

Michael cut another piece of his hair and it landed in the sink. The hilarity of the situation was not lost on him, and he caught his own smirk in the mirror before turning his face expressionless again.

Luke opened his mouth, then paused, and said, “What the fuck?”

Michael didn’t particularly know how to explain himself, ever, and now was not an exception. He put the scissors down, feeling a scowl twist his lips. “What?”

“It’s-” Luke raised his eyebrows. Michael watched his eyes dance over the mess on the floor, and Luke shook his head, a strange sort of entertained smile curling the edge of his lip. “Your hair was fine before.”

“What?” Michael repeated. Of all things Luke could have said, Michael hadn’t been expecting that.

“Nevermind. Um. I hope you’re planning on cleaning that up.”

“Oh. Yeah, I will.” Michael glanced quickly around the floor, brushing some hair off his shoulders at the same time. He chanced a look in the mirror. Not hideous. 

Luke stood at the doorway for a second longer. Michael felt Luke’s eyes on his face, and a moment later, Luke turned away and was gone. Probably off to his room. He had been spending an unproportional amount of time in there today, while Michael was watching TV. Michael wondered idly what he was doing.

He finished up his hair, hacking away at some strands that failed to cut the first time. In spite of the messy job, warm satisfaction coiled in Michael’s chest. A different, good kind of adrenaline was filling his veins; the kind that cleared his head and made him feel alive. It was a drug he was completely unused to - it was an opposing force of the poison he typically favoured, and a different breed of the anxious adrenaline that came with sobriety, but it was a drug nonetheless and he held onto the feeling with claws and teeth. 

_ Aren’t you a fucking wreck, _ he thought, hands on the edge of the bathroom counter, barely meeting his own gaze in the mirror. 

Michael bit his lip, hard, to shock some more drive into his system. He washed his hair down the sink and crouched to pick up the rest with a wad of wet toilet paper. The adrenaline in his veins receded slightly into background noise with each breath, getting replaced by scattered thoughts and heavy eyelids.

Not long after, Michael fell asleep on the couch. He’d found the AC box behind the desk setup and turned it off before huddling under his blanket. Luke didn’t emerge from his room, so Michael had switched the lights out by himself, hoping Luke wasn’t planning on cooking something else tonight, and drifted off with his head on the palm of his hand.

\---

The next morning, Michael slept in more than usual. He probably would have slept in longer, he reflected, if someone hadn’t dropped cutlery on the floor with a rattling clang.

“Fuck,” Luke whispered, from the kitchen. Michael groaned and rolled over, putting a hand on his ear. He felt heavy with sleep, his mouth dry and lips cracked, his eyes glued shut and his feet cold once again - that was the hum of the air conditioner. Fucking hell.

“Uh, sorry,” Luke called, vaguely abashed, realizing Michael was awake. “Morning?”

Michael groaned again in response and tried to sit up. The sun was out already. He forced his eyes open and blinked to clear them. A muttered curse escaped his lips and he rubbed his face, making to push his hair away, but finding it already up. Oh, right. 

“What are you doing?” Michael mumbled. He sat up against the armrest, yawning.

“Redecorating,” Luke said, sarcastic, bending down to pick up a spoon from the floor. He huffed a laugh and rinsed it off in the sink. “No, I’m just doing dishes. Sorry."

Michael yawned, again. “What time is it?”

“There’s a clock on the microwave, you know.”

Michael made a face. 

“Okay, fine, it’s nine-oh-five.”

Michael sullenly nodded his thanks. Oh, and he was waking up, all right - his pulse was speeding up, back to its position at just-a-bit-too-high to be comfortable. He sat on the couch for another minute, and felt his hair, trying to decide if it was better or worse than it had been before. 

Standing up, Michael fixed the twist in his t-shirt and pulled his jeans farther up on his hips. For no fucking reason, it seemed, a dark hopelessness filled Michael’s chest, and he screwed his eyes shut, taken by a wave of misery. Nothing felt right in the world.  _ Oh, right _ . Lack of dopamine in his brain was going to be his reality for the next week or so. This was the stage he never made it past. 

The depression gave way to a sparkling diamond of fear, rooted deep in his mind, and he fought for something else to think about.

“Any plans for today?” He asked Luke.

Luke shrugged. “Just recording stuff, I think.”

They started setting up for breakfast in nonverbal agreement. Luke hesitated over grabbing a bowl for himself, which Michael at first pretended not to see, but decided to ask anyway. 

“Do you usually have breakfast?”

Looking surprised, Luke sat down at the table with his bowl and stared at it. “Uh, usually it’s more like… lunch, I guess.”

That was a way to save money on food, for sure. Only eat two meals a day. Michael couldn’t really talk; he’d done way worse than that in the past. That didn’t stop him from saying the first thing that came to mind. “I can’t really judge you for that, but it’s probably not good for you.”

“Yeah,” Luke said, shortly. “I know.”

The silence felt longer than it went on for, and Michael started eating to pass the time. The sugar in the cereal was giving him a mood boost, and though he knew it wouldn’t last, he was glad for it.

“I have ten dollars,” Michael announced. He took the money out of his pocket and set it on the table between them. 

Luke gave him a nonplussed look. “Sounds like you need a job, then.”

They both politely ignored the connotations of Michael not having a job from their argument last night. Michael snorted. “How much do you have?”

Eating cereal together, Luke and Michael discussed their finances. It wasn’t particularly inspiring. Luke made almost $150 a week, if he was lucky, and most of that went towards rent and food, so he had very little left over for amenities. Michael pointed out that Luke could probably get a minimum wage job of his own and make twice as much a week. Luke became agitated when he mentioned it, though, for whatever reason, so he dropped it. 

Inventory on the apartment showed that with Luke and Michael living in it, the food would be gone in about two weeks, and at that point the rent would be up, too. Michael wondered how Luke wasn’t constantly visibly stressing because of it. He supposed Luke could always move back to his parents’ house, probably, if all else failed.

If all else failed for Michael, he’d be out in the streets again.

After a while of miserable silence, thrown into a funk by the realities of their situation, Luke spoke up. “Nice haircut, by the way.”

Apparently Michael wasn’t as hardened by life on the streets as he thought he was, because he felt a smile creep onto his face at Luke’s words. “Thanks.”

Under the table, Michael shifted his feet and accidentally stepped on Luke’s foot. Luke swore, and Michael jolted. 

“Jesus, your feet are cold.”

Oh, okay. “That’s not my fault. You set the air conditioning too high.”

“What? It’s the right temperature.”

“Fuck no it’s not. Maybe in the summer, it is.”

Luke looked insulted. Michael stifled a laugh and tried not to stare too long at Luke’s face, because it was pretty and his mouth looked kind of cute like that,  _ definitely _ cute like that, and Michael needed to get a grip on himself and find some self-awareness. He’d never been in the same league as someone like Luke, and he never would be. Honestly, there was no point even thinking that way; Luke was just a pretty face, and probably a lot of people looked at him with some form of adoration wherever he went.  _ Knowing _ Luke had an attractive face was not the same thing as  _ being _ attracted to said face.

After eating, Luke brushed his teeth in the bathroom and did whatever else in there while Michael walked around the main room in the apartment. Too much was swimming around in his head; dread and listlessness, anxiety and stress, contentment from eating and comfort from being indoors. Being indoors was massively fucking underrated. He never wanted to leave. He’d have to, though, to get a job, so he and Luke had a chance at making it for the next few weeks. Since when had it become him and Luke? 

Michael was out of the bathroom in minutes, pacing around the apartment again with nothing to do. 

  
  


**8**

_ let's get away/ 'Cause everything's broken _

“Do you record in your bedroom?”

Luke was fiddling with the speakers on the desk behind the couch. He looked up to respond. “Yeah, the acoustics are better in there.”

“You got guitars?”

Unplugging one of the speakers, Luke stood up and wrapped the cable around his hand. He met Michael’s eyes over the back of the couch. Michael had thrown himself on the couch only a minute ago. “Yeah, I have one,” he said, sounding guarded. 

“Can I see?” 

Luke narrowed his eyes and bit his lip, considering. Something in Michael’s expression made him change his mind. “Okay, sure.”

Michael had always thought of himself as tall, but next to Luke, he felt frustratingly short. He followed him into his bedroom, noting the self-conscious body language, and realized Luke was most likely a pretty shy person - he didn’t have any friends, it seemed like, and he hadn’t said much unprompted this morning, and every now and then he acted like he didn’t belong in his own apartment. It made Michael feel rude, like he’d barged in to Luke’s life and was making a mess of the quietude. 

“It’s just a telecaster,” Luke explained, pointing to the guitar propped against the wall. Michael looked around his room, quickly; it was less than half the size of the main room, there was a smaller window looking out across the intersection, and there was a double bed against the far wall. Between the door and the window, there was a narrow desk with Luke’s computer charging on top. The carpet was the same off-white cream colour as in the main room. 

“Do you play guitar?”

Michael nodded. “Well, I used to. I never had one, though.” He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth. There was a little too much someone could unpack from a statement like that, and he didn’t like admitting he had a shitty childhood. He covered for himself by reaching over and touching the headstock. “Can I…?”

Luke sighed and waved his hand in accordance. Michael took it from the wall and squatted to rest the guitar on his knee. He played a few chords, tried a riff from an old Misfits song someone had taught him in Year Eight, struggling without a pick, and stopped before he could get too frustrated with his lack of experience. If he’d had it his way - if he had made his parent’s decisions, back in high school - he’d have his own guitar and he’d be fucking incredible at playing it. The resentment sat hard and heavy in his chest and he stood up to lean the guitar back against the wall.

“That’s pretty cool. Thanks.” Michael offered Luke a weak smile. 

Luke was nodding, and turned back towards something on his computer. “Yeah. No problem.”

Michael stood up and cracked his neck. This room was warmer than the other, but only slightly. He peered over Luke’s shoulder at the computer screen. “What’re you doing?” 

“It’s Venmo.” Luke typed out a few words and hit enter. A confirmation came up on the screen. “Just got ten bucks.”

Michael hummed in reply and went to the window. Late morning traffic filled the intersection with the rumble of engines and the squeal of brakes. The curtains were open, letting sunlight into the room, the feeble rays capturing particles of swirling dust in the air. Michael stared. It reminded him intensely of his bedroom in his parents’ house, and not in a good way; the stillness that hung in every open space, the silence when he was home alone, which was often, and the old, untampered-with furnishings that nobody ever bothered to clean or move. 

Drowning in a tragedy he could not fix, Michael watched the dust spiral in the sunlight. The air vanished from his lungs until he could not tell whether or not he was breathing. 

A noise, a scuffling of carpet, alerted Michael to Luke’s presence. Michael instinctively reached for the window and twisted it open. The sounds of traffic and trains enveloped his mind again, letting him breathe easier, but he still felt trapped.

“Yeah, it is a bit stuffy in here, I guess,” Luke said, from behind him, shocking Michael farther out of his reverie. 

“What?”

“I don’t usually open the window. It’s too noisy when I’m trying to record.”

“Oh, right.” Michael shot Luke a miniature smile and closed the window, dulling the commotion outside. Luke was peering at him with his brow creased, slightly, as if he was trying to figure him out. Michael didn’t give him a chance to - he stepped past him, past the desk and computer, and back into the main room. 

The microwave read 10:28, and Michael decided he needed to leave the apartment for a while. He didn’t have anything to do, and he knew he was either going to go stir-crazy or slip into a funk if he stayed inside. 

“I’m gonna go out for a bit,” he told Luke, grabbing the key off the counter. 

“Okay.” 

Luke, standing in the doorway to his bedroom, watched him pull his shoes on with his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing the same hoodie from last night. When Michael straightened and pulled the door open, slipping into his windbreaker, Luke said, “You’re gonna come back, right?”

Michael glanced up at him. “Yeah, of course.” Of course he was going to come back; he had nowhere else to go. 

It was a fine day out. The sun was a reminder of the early fall, bright but not overpowering, and there was a light breeze that had kicked up over the railroad tracks a block or two away, carrying the smell of exhaust. Michael felt the wind on the back of his neck and the pavement hard under his shoes. His legs were sore from yesterday’s walking. 

There wasn’t a direction he was trying to get to, today. The sounds of the city filled his ears, and he let himself walk, at an undemanding pace, down Regent, then off onto Redfern Street. Buildings lining the street were shorter than on Regent, only one or two floors, but the atmosphere spoke to a brighter nightlife with a few more diners and bars. Michael unzipped his jacket and ran a hand through his hair, trying not to think of anything in particular. He refrained from ducking onto smaller streets, not wanting to return to his usual haunts. It had been a while since Michael walked around in the daylight on crowded streets. He wanted to feel human again. 

Michael found himself thinking about friends. He wasn’t sure if Luke considered him a friend - he hadn’t figured out what he considered Luke as, yet, either. The term  _ friend _ to Michael was somehow, at once, both the loosest and most draconian definition of the word; he’d had friends for the past few years, yeah, but they were only called that because he either lived around them or spoke to them regularly. There was no trust shared in that type of friendship.

There was only one person Michael could point out as a  _ friend _ friend, and that boy had been long gone since Michael turned twelve years old. His name was Calum, and he and his family had moved to the United States in Year Seven, condemning Michael to high school years spent alone. He hadn’t spoken Calum’s name since Year Eight, and he didn’t like thinking about him, even now. 

They’d shared too many dreams, now long abandoned. The memories of them as kids, rose-tinted like a November sunset, burned Michael like an iron poker when he got too close. Dream too much and the world becomes a nightmare. He’d learned that the hard way.

Michael felt a rush of warm air on his face, and he glanced to the left to see a pair of restaurant doors swing shut. The glass read  _ La Coppola _ in a stylised scrawl. A piece of laminated paper, taped below the words, used block letters to exclaim  _ Now Hiring! _ Michael started paying more attention, and stepped farther away from the curb to let people walk past him. The chatter from pedestrians ebbed and flowed alongside the ever-present growl of traffic.

_ Now Hiring _ . Well, that was convenient. If only Michael had a resume he could give to them, maybe he’d have a chance at getting a job.

Fuck it, he was going in anyways. He was desperate.

“Hi, is there a manager in?” Michael asked, quickly. He addressed the man wiping down a table in the booth section. The restaurant didn’t seem busy, probably because it was only about eleven AM on a Saturday, but he appeared hurried and Michael felt bad bothering him.

“Yeah, uh, should be. What for?”

“There’s a sign on the door. You’re hiring?”

The guy looked up and gave Michael a once-over. “Yeah, we’re hiring. Did you email ahead of time with your resume?”

Michael gave the man a once-over, too. He had a shock of raven-black, centre-parted hair, a straight nose, and a clean-shaven face that emphasized his strong jawline. He looked subtly out of place wearing a grey golf t-shirt, but Michael figured he probably had to as part of some uniform. “Oh. I didn’t know I had to.”

“Read the small print,” the guy supplied, unhelpfully.

Michael sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been worth a try, he supposed. This place smelled too overpoweringly like tomato sauce anyway, even for an italian restaurant, if the smell of pizza and pasta was anything to go by. “Right.” He turned around to go.

“Actually-”

Michael turned around again, eyebrows raised, juggling with hope. The man was wearing a conflicted expression. “Actually, come talk to my manager anyway. We’re kind of understaffed, so…”

So Michael might have a chance. “Alright.” He followed as the man led him farther back into the restaurant.

The air was warm, and the restaurant was small, but decorated in a strangely hip fashion. Coloured lamps hung from the varied-height ceiling, and neon signs, license plates, and modern art covered the walls. One couple sat at a round table. They were the only customers inside, and were sharing a cheese pizza, their talking muffled by the fan system and the commotion both out on the street and inside the kitchen. Michael was unused to the smell of so much food, and he felt his mouth water while he simultaneously had to press up on the roof of it with his tongue, a latent gag reflex rising in his throat. He breathed in deep with his mouth and out with his nose. 

“Ashton, what happened to your name tag?”

A young woman, probably in her late twenties, was standing just inside the employee door to the kitchen. She had short hair, and it was blue and purple - Michael immediately took a liking to her. She was wearing a black blouse, short-sleeved, and high-waisted black jeans.

The guy Michael had followed to the back glanced down at his shirt. “Oh, shi-” 

“And who’s this?” The woman narrowed her eyes at Michael, cutting the guy - Ashton - off. She didn’t look angry, exactly; hastily covered up crescents under her eyes indicated exhaustion, and Michael suspected that was more the issue than he was.

“He’s here for a job,” Ashton said. “He’s…”

“Michael,” Michael offered. “I saw the sign in the front? I didn’t email ahead, sorry, I only saw it today.”

“Oh, okay,” the woman said. “Cool. I’m the manager. Want a job interview?”

“Now?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. Come in here.” She turned around and waved for him to follow, going towards a desk separated from the kitchen by a wall divider. Michael hesitated. He met Ashton’s gaze, who gave him a quick encouraging look before going back out into the restaurant to continue cleaning. 

The interview was about as short as the one Michael had done yesterday, but it went far differently. The woman, the restaurant manager, introduced herself as Ashley, and explained very briefly the requirements for working in a number of positions. She asked to see his resume, and it was almost over when he told her he didn’t have one; she did say the restaurant was desperate for new employees, however, and conceded that some available positions had no prerequisites, so he was more than welcome to work as one of those. Dishwasher was the position she assigned him. It would have hurt more if he’d felt he had any dignity to begin with.

“That’s it? I, uh, have the job?”

“I’m definitely going to need your contact details and some other things. Your mailing address, for a start.” Ashley started filling out a form while she spoke, writing Michael’s first and last name at the top.

“Oh, right.” Michael sighed internally at the thought. He didn’t have any contact details, and legally, he was homeless. “Do you mind if I take the forms home to fill them out?” He didn’t know whether or not Luke had a landline, but at least he could find the apartment address.

“Yeah, I suppose. Can I get your phone number or an email?”

Michael grimaced at her. “I don’t have a phone. I can come back tomorrow, if that’s convenient, with the forms done then?”

“I’ll still need a way to contact you for your shifts.” Ashley said, perplexed.

“I’ll make an email,” Michael promised. He ignored the strange look she gave him and reached for the forms on the desk. “I’ll drop these off tomorrow, like, same time, is that cool?” 

Ashley pushed the forms over on the desk and rolled her lip between her teeth, arms crossed over her chest. The curious sparkle in her eyes made him feel uncomfortably watched, as if he was behind the glass in some zoo exhibit. He shook off the feeling and attributed it to her naturally fierce demeanor. Finally, she looked away, glancing at her wristwatch, and said, “Yeah, sounds good.”

There wasn’t much in the world that carried the same bittersweet feeling of employment. Michael had always hated the idea of working; the concept of a nine-to-five job felt like a sour introduction to the suburban industry of childrearing and the ever-present inability to find satisfaction in life. Despite - or maybe because of - the fact he’d been a product of said system, he was very disinclined towards it. Ashley had told him the hours were more like noon till eight or five till twelve, though, so at least he’d escaped the symbolic nightmare of working from exactly nine-to-five. 

Michael walked out through the restaurant, a feeling of strange hope blooming in his chest. He felt - excited to tell Luke? Was that what it was? Maybe it was satisfaction from landing an okay job. He liked the manager, Ashley, which was a first, and Ashton didn’t seem all that bad. There were definitely worse scenarios he could have found himself in.

There was a coffee shop on Redfern Street that Michael had been many times before. It was where he was headed now. He folded the application forms and tucked them into his jacket pocket, hoping the lining of the worn fabric lining wouldn’t tear. 

\---

A few hours of mindless people-watching later, Michael felt shitty to the bone and needed to stretch his legs again. The coffee shop employees were probably glad to see him leave; he hadn’t bought a drink, and he’d sat at one of their outdoor tables with his hood up, exuding a suspicious presence in the otherwise pleasant atmosphere. 

All the hope he’d felt in the morning was gone now, and Michael felt dejection deep in his heart. His tired eyes fell on sun-bathed asphalt and concrete, danced morosely over peoples’ smiling, talking, laughing faces. Why were they all so happy? What was there in the world to be happy about? He wanted to go home.  _ Home _ ? Not home. It was Luke’s apartment; he wanted to go back to Luke’s apartment and fall asleep on the couch, ideally after digging through the medicine cabinet and popping some Xanax to calm the pent-up anxiety in his veins. Frustration made him even more desolate. There was no easy cure to this kind of sadness, and Michael fucking knew it, and somehow that made it worse, not better. He just had to wait it out. The trembling would pass, as would most of the anxiety, and the depression would pass, too, but it would take longer, and Michael wasn’t sure if he could handle it for that long.

Fuck it, there was no point lying to himself - Michael was entirely convinced he’d break when it got bad enough. He strained to put off the inevitable crash, but every now and then he forgot why he was fighting. He couldn’t think about it for too long, because if he did, he’d realize there wasn’t a point in fighting at all, and he was being a massive fucking idiot for making himself suffer like this. 

Silently raging a war in his head, Michael didn’t realize he’d stopped outside a convenience store until he looked up and saw the sign over the door. His eyes immediately found and latched onto the liquor aisle, staring a hole through the reflection of himself in the window pane. His heart surged in his chest. Oh, god, he was so close. He was so, so close.

The sun was warm on the back of Michael’s neck. The whistle of a train, about eight blocks away, dug its way into his eardrums. Late autumn wind tousled his recently-cut hair, raising goosebumps on his skin, making him suppress a shiver. It reminded him that the dark months of July and August were here, and he could do nothing to stop the passing of time, and not only that, but now the liquor aisle was burned on his retinas. Cold hysteria bubbled up in the back of Michael’s throat. How the fuck had it come to this? What the fuck was he doing? He felt his lips convulse in a curl that mimicked a smile, a grimace, but he didn’t feel  _ happy _ , what the fuck, he wasn’t ever going to feel happy again. His throat closed, and his head spun, and he coughed a dry laugh out of his traitor mouth. It was hoarse and scratched on the way up. He wanted to cry.

Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, and Michael pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, forcefully, until his teeth ached and left imprints on his skin and more tears formed, but for pain this time. A woman walking past gave him a wide berth. He barely noticed. Michael bit down on his hand and choked out another laugh, and this time it ended like a sob, and he squeezed his eyes shut until he saw sparks.

Then he was inside the store. He was down the aisle. He reached out a fumbling hand, saw it tremble in his peripheral vision, a couple of deep red-purple lines bruising the back. He pinched the neck of a small bottle and crouched, tucking it into his jacket as he bent down. Oh, he knew what he was doing, even when his thoughts were scrambled; there were so many times he’d done this before. Too many to remember. 

The bottle was out of sight, and Michael stood up, plastered an ambivalent but vaguely disappointed expression on his face, and wandered out of the store, back outside into the cold sunlight.

  
  


**9**

_ When the sun goes down we all get lonely  _

He hadn’t opened the bottle yet. It should have been easy; it was Michael’s second nature to solve his sobriety as soon as possible, whenever he was given the chance, especially if he was in withdrawal. Instead, he walked quickly, with his fingers curled around the cap, furtively ignoring his frozen fingers on the cold metal. Just a bit longer. He was almost back at the Aspect, then he’d be in Luke’s apartment. 

Adrenaline pulsed through his veins in time with his heart, a strange cocktail of good and bad. He figured that was better than entirely bad, but it made his brain flip between coherence and incoherence like he was hooked up to an alternating current. Everything was cold or hot or buzzing or numb. His eyes flickered between the sidewalk, the road, the buildings on either side of the street, the bright sky that was slowly filling with greyness, tracing the movement of vehicles. The black apartment complex loomed kitty-corner to Michael and he kept his head down until he’d crossed both streets and made his way into the lobby, patting his pocket lightly with his free hand to confirm he still had the room key.

Brain fluttering between topics, Michael was starting to think he and Luke were the only people who lived in the complex, because this was his third day walking the second-floor hallway and another person was yet to be seen. Maybe they were all old, or something, like the unpleasant elderly neighbourhood he grew up in. It was filled with boring old people who never left their houses, and when they did, drove near-blind in their pension-money Maseratis. He hoped that wasn’t the case. At least in Redfern, the old were probably poor.

He opened the door, quietly, hiding the bottle behind his leg. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he felt the need to, but he didn’t bother digging through his brain to find out. The room was empty, and Luke’s bedroom door was closed, so he was all clear - he closed the door behind him with even more discretion and leaned his forehead against it when he was done.

The twang of an unplugged guitar being played came out of Luke’s bedroom. It was distantly familiar to Michael. He felt an echo of his fourteen-year-old self; the excitement, envy, interest, and self-consciousness came all the way from high school, as if he’d walked into the band room and found somebody playing guitar, and he desperately wanted to ask if he could try, and what songs they knew, and whether or not they played in a band, and… Michael sighed, heavy, and took his shoes off.

He ended up hiding the bottle behind the garbage can under the sink. The knowledge it was there gave him a sense of security - when he was ready, it would still be there for him.

Michael sat down on the couch and turned on the blank TV. He was irrationally annoyed that Luke didn’t have any videogames. Scratch that, he was rationally annoyed. What the hell was he supposed to do? 

A muffled voice joined the guitar in the other room. Michael felt his ears perk up, minutely. Luke was singing. It was hard to tell through the door, but what Michael could hear sounded good, like a real song, like a lead singer in a band would sound like. He tried to imagine what Luke would look like singing and playing guitar. He shut down that train of thought almost immediately.

Luke sang the same melody a couple of times, then shifted up to a higher harmonic, then down to the one below the original note. The repetition and abrupt stops indicated to Michael he was making recordings. Sometimes a guitar chord was played, sometimes only a note, and sometimes not at all, or too quietly for Michael to hear. Michael lay down on the couch, jacket still on, crumpling the forms in his pocket, and turned the TV off again. 

The remote landed on the floor with a quiet bump, and Michael closed his eyes as Luke’s voice began another melody.

\---

“Oh, sh- l. Fuck, sorry, were you asleep?” 

Too late, the voice trailed off into a whisper. Michael was awake, feeling out of place, and the room was filled with dim, dusky light. He rubbed at his eyes and forced himself to sit up.

“I didn’t hear you come back,” Luke said, hanging onto the apologetic tone. He was standing in the shadowed doorway to his bedroom, a hand tangled in the hair at the back of his head, black jeans and a too-big Led Zeppelin t-shirt on. The shirt had shifted so one of Luke’s collarbones was bared. Michael tried not to look, and failed.

“Hey,” he said.

“Uh, hi.” 

Luke’s voice was soft and faded around the edges. His eyes were dark, hidden under the hair that hung in curls over his forehead. He pushed it out of the way with a yawn. 

Tearing his eyes away from Luke, Michael glanced out the window into the quickly darkening purple glow of the sky. “Time?”

The light from Luke’s phone screen appeared, dimmed, vanished. “Seven twenty.” 

Michael pulled himself together. He’d been asleep for about four hours, then. That explained why he didn’t feel tired; the nap combined with last night’s rest was the most sleep he’d gotten in what felt like years. Drunk sleep didn’t count. It was the most sleep he’d gotten,  _ sober _ , in the last few years. 

Luke made his way to the kitchen, hitting the lightswitch as he went. Over his shoulder, he asked, “When’d you get back?”

“Three-ish.”

Luke raised his eyebrows and picked a can out of an overhead cabinet. It was the same kind of soup as last night. That wasn’t a surprise. Michael’s hollow stomach panged with hunger, and he stood up to help Luke prepare dinner.

The crumple of paper in his jacket when he straightened made Michael’s pulse jump. He dug the paper out of his pocket quickly and flattened it out to read in the dim light -  _ La Coppola _ was scrawled at the top, above the industrial font that read  _ Application Form _ . Hope and excitement roiled in his chest. He hurried over into the kitchen.

“Luke!” Luke spun, bewildered, at Michael’s exclamation. 

Michael didn’t give him time to ask. “I got a job.” He waved the forms, triumphant, a proud smile secured on his face. 

“Oh- that’s awesome!”

Luke wasn’t as enthusiastic as Michael expected him to be. His expression was conflicted; a strange combination of pride and guilt. It made Michael’s mood flicker, and when Luke turned back to the soup, he narrowed his eyes at Luke’s back. “What’s the problem?” Was Luke upset because Michael had a job and he didn’t? Was he upset because with an income, Michael was far more likely to stay, able to pay a section of Luke’s rent for the next month? 

After a long pause, Luke asked, “Why’d you get it?”

Nonplussed, Michael offered, “So I can afford new clothes? So I can buy food sometimes?” He gestured at his head. “I don’t know, I could bleach my hair again?”

Luke persisted. “Not because of what I said?”

_ Oh _ . What Luke had said yesterday. Michael didn’t know what to tell him. “Not entirely.” He waited to see if that was an acceptable response. Luke waited him out, too, so he kept going. “Not entirely. I mean… you had a point. But,” he added, “It’s less that and more… for me.”

Luke stirred the pot. “Okay,” he said, softly, still facing away from Michael. Michael had the sense Luke wanted to apologize. It hung in the air like a mist, and Michael swatted it away, angrily. He was in a good mood, damnit, and nothing Luke dragged up from last night was going to end it.

“When I get my paycheck we’ll be able to get some Netflix in here, finally,” Michael quipped, watching Luke for a positive reaction.

Luke huffed in laughter. Michael put the forms down on the table, pretending he wasn’t looking at Luke running his hands through his hair. Because he wasn’t. Obviously.

Over dinner, Michael had Luke help him fill out the forms. Luke brought his computer out of his room and set Michael up with an email account. And, since Luke didn’t have a landline, he let Michael write down his cell number as secondary contact information. Luke promised he’d tell Michael if any emails came through. Michael was just grateful Luke was willing to share his digital space. Then there was his address, which he wasn’t legally registered at - but who was going to check, anyway - and his bank account details, none of which he remembered. He had a couple moments of panic looking at the blanks, until Luke tentatively offered his own account, as if he was expecting Michael to be offended. Well, any normal person would, Michael supposed. He agreed, even if he wasn’t entirely sure he should be trusting Luke with his money - but it wasn’t as if he had a choice right now.

“Is it a store, or…?”

“La Coppola? It’s, like, an italian restaurant on Redfern. I don’t know, it was the first place I found. I’ve never actually been there before.” 

Michael felt like he was rambling, so he cut himself off. He curled his hand back around his spoon and was relieved that Luke wasn’t talking anymore so he didn’t have to look at him. Dinner was fine as it was, he didn’t need the complications that came with Luke’s face. He didn’t want to have to choose between looking at Luke’s eyes or his mouth or his neck or his hair, or even his hands, or, fuck it, even his shoulders under the Led Zepplin t-shirt, because Michael was thinking about Luke playing guitar earlier today, and he sure as hell could recognize  _ that _ as an attractive picture. Despite, of course, not being attracted to Luke. It was just- that. An attractive picture.

“Did they say when you start?”

Michael’s gaze leapt to meet Luke’s blue eyes and darted away a split second later. He shrugged. “I’m supposed to give these in tomorrow, so I think they’ll tell me then.”

Luke nodded. They ate the rest of their dinner in comfortable silence, the papers sitting on the table between them, filled in with black ink.

\---

Time passed fast, and before Michael knew it, it was past nine o’clock and Luke was fiddling with the sound equipment on his desk while Michael watched shitty TV. He was bored. He had been to the bathroom twice in the last hour due to the litres of water he’d drank right after dinner; still, the type of thirst he wanted to quench had remained stubbornly unaffected. He’d given up with the water and his mind was starting to wander back to the bottle he’d hidden under the kitchen sink.

With Luke in the room, he had enough of a reason not to snap. Something about Luke’s presence put up a small social barrier; many times, when he’d broken his streak, he had been alone. Luke’s constant puttering between the main room and his bedroom made it difficult for Michael to get more than a minute to himself. He was frustrated by it as much as he was begrudgingly grateful for it.

Michael managed to zone out looking at the TV. The blinds were open, and the night outside was dark, interrupted briefly by the flash of a car’s headlights on the building across the street. It didn’t sound like it was raining. He couldn’t hear much outside, but if he drifted far enough into his own mind, he could feel the cold wind of the night across his back, ruffling his hair, like it had done for so many years. He could hear the chatter of drunk crowds outside nightclubs, stumbling, laughing, falling into dark corners. He could see the flicker of a lighter as someone lit up a cigarette, smell the cold dampness of tobacco on the air, feel the dust-covered bricks against the back of his head. The dry pull in his chest made everything too real, too familiar.

“I’m gonna go out for a sec. I’ll be right back.”

Luke’s voice cut through the fog in Michael’s head. He blinked and turned to look at Luke, standing by the door, holding up the keys in a farewell gesture. A leather jacket was around his shoulders. The light fell in a manner that made it hard for Michael to read his expression, but his hands fiddled with the jacket sleeves in an oddly familiar pattern. Michael watched the glint of silver keyring and the gleam of Luke’s golden-blond hair and nodded in acknowledgement, turning back to the TV.

Michael listened to Luke’s soft footsteps fading from earshot and wondered, despite the compulsion to mind his own business, where he was off to.

Seconds later, like clockwork, the blood in Michael’s veins started buzzing, brighter and faster than before. Like clockwork, he felt the floodgates in his mind brace and falter, brace and falter.

“Fuck,” Michael said, out loud.

He stood up. He forced himself to sit back down. He pressed his hands to his face, rubbed his eyes, pushed his hands through his hair, groaned into his palms. It was  _ right there _ . He was so close. And he was ready, because he’d been waiting for this moment since he’d stolen the bottle, and now Luke was out of sight and out of mind. He was alone in Luke’s apartment with nothing but the static hum of the air conditioner and the occurring rumble of vehicles on the street outside. Alone with a cure that would fix all of his problems and fears and regrets and bad thoughts. He was an idiot  _ not _ to drink.

Michael stood up and stayed standing. He made his way into the kitchen at a measured pace. Luke said he’d be back soon, he reminded himself. Not that it mattered. He was alone, he felt alone, and nobody would ever be there for him. Fuck the world; he was ready to dive back into his shitty, careless, care _ free _ , life.

He opened the cabinet, then stood up and kicked it closed.  _ No _ . 

There were things worth staying sane for. He just had to… he had to remember what they were, he had to draw up that hope from earlier today, he had to… realize he didn’t need to be drunk to be happy, the voice of his rehab therapist,  _ I don’t need to be _ …

Michael felt the emptiness fill his chest, and he ached with nothing but the need to repair it, his mind grabbing hold of anything it could affix itself to then spinning away milliseconds later. He opened the cabinet. Then he stopped, closed it, and backed away. Towards the door, towards his shoes that he stepped into, the windbreaker he put on, because out in the complex he didn’t want people staring at his tattoos, and he made himself open the door and shut it tight behind himself. His pulse ran rampant and his hands shook, and the only thing his conscious mind could hold onto was  _ Luke _ .

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part titles in this act:
> 
> The Taste of Ink by The Used  
> Catch Fire by 5SOS  
> If I Were You by Mayday Parade  
> Run by Bring Me The Horizon  
> Lonely Heart by 5SOS


	3. ACT III

**10**

_Dear gravity, you held me down in this starless city_

Michael didn’t know where Luke was, nor had any idea of where he’d go. He was desperate; he felt feverish, anger and fear twisting up his insides, panicking. Falling with no handholds would be familiar, almost calming - but falling blind, not knowing if there was something in the fog he could grab hold of, or, if there was, if it would be able to catch him, made him terrified.

A breeze caught the edges of his overloaded senses, and he followed it down to the end of the hallway. A metal door was at the end. It was the staircase.

For lack of better places to go, Michael opened the stairwell door. The dim slam of another door echoed down from a few storeys up. He snapped to attention and followed the sound, legs burning at the breakneck pace he set himself.

At the top of the stairs, he caught his breath and read the sign above the door.  _ Roof Access: Personnel Only _ . The crispness of outside air hung in the stairwell. 

Cautiously, Michael pushed the heavy door open. The buzz of the halogen light bulb inside gave way to the steady rush of nighttime wind over Sydney. Golden glow spilled out over the tar roofing, and Michael saw a figure turn to look at him, sitting against the concrete ledge bordering the roof. The city behind him was a constellation of lights. Michael knew it was Luke almost instantly.

“Michael?” Luke had recognized him too. Michael was suddenly wracked with anxiety; he hadn’t thought this far ahead. He didn’t know what he was going to say. The twitching animal part of his mind had brought him here, to Luke, and had left the rest of him to fend alone.

Michael didn’t reply straight away - instead, he did the only thing he could do and went towards Luke, the door closing behind him, leaving his eyes to adjust to the weak silvery glow of the crescent moon far above. He shivered despite himself and tucked his shaking hands into his jacket pockets. It took him seconds to cross the roof to the ledge Luke was leaning against and sit down too, back to the city lights, face to the night’s ocean wind and the gleam of moonlight on rooftop tar. He could tell Luke was watching him.

“What are you doing up here?” Luke asked. His voice was low, blending with the wind and sounds of the street below. There was a mix of worry and suspicion lacing his words.

Michael turned his head to look at him, folding his arms over his tucked-up legs. Luke’s eyes were black in the dark, face almost entirely in shadow. Michael put both hands to his own face and spoke into his palms, forcing the words out, willing his body to stop trembling. “How am I supposed to live?” It wasn’t really a question; he said it quiet enough that Luke might not have registered the exact words.

For the last few days, ever since the first night when Michael had been in heavy withdrawal, Luke hadn’t made any mention of or reference to Michael’s addiction. Michael had kept it to himself as well. Still, he knew Luke hadn’t forgotten. He waited in feverish silence.

The scrape and flick of a lighter came from beside him. Michael glanced up to see the flame, a bright, dancing star in the dark. Luke used it to light a cigarette. He released the lighter and put the cigarette in between his lips. 

He met Michael’s gaze, finally, eyes dark with something ugly and knowing and defeated.

“You too.” Michael said, dully.

Luke took a long drag, sighing out a puff of white smoke. It was carried away by the wind. “Yeah. Me too.” 

They sat in silence. The concrete was hard and familiar on the back of Michael’s head. The rooftop tar was rough under his fingers. The faint smell of tobacco tickled against Michael’s nose every time Luke took a drag, but it was gone without a trace after a split second. He felt Luke’s body heat, just barely. He tasted salt and gasoline on the air.

“I’m trying to quit,” Luke said.

Michael picked at a lump of tar. “Me too.”

“You seem to be doing a good job of it.”

“Not tonight.” 

Luke took his cigarette out of his mouth and sat forward so he could turn around and flick the ashy tip off the roof. He sat back down. “Why’d you follow me?”

_ Tell him a lie _ , Michael urged himself. Tell Luke he wanted to sit on the roof by himself, and it was an accident that he’d found Luke up here. Laugh and tell him that it was too hot in the apartment. Tell him a stupid joke, because Michael knew he was going to regret explaining any part of himself to Luke, because that’s just how he was and how he always had been, by himself and watching his own back.

He shrugged. Honesty clawed up his throat. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Michael felt Luke’s gaze on him, and he shrugged again, trying to shake it off. He felt too seen; more seen that he’d felt in ages, years. At the same time, he felt alone, hidden, invincible on the rooftop of a shitty apartment in a shitty part of a shitty district in Sydney. So much of everything, so much of nothing, all at once. Adrenaline and fear and the electric shock of thrill burning through his veins.

_ Fuck it _ . “I started drinking when I was fifteen,” Michael said. His voice felt tired and rough, desperate and uncertain. Luke tilted his head and listened.

“My life pretty much went to shit around then. Not that it wasn’t shit before,” Michael laughed, drily. He paused and stared up at the starless sky. “Long story short, I dropped out of high school two years later. I moved out. My parents didn’t care, so they didn’t try to stop me. They wouldn’t have been able to, anyway. I did whatever the fuck I wanted.

“So I was seventeen and I was out in the streets, sleeping at a friend’s, or even at a stranger’s place. I stuck to drink because I was too afraid to try cocaine, or dope, or fucking K, even. I was too afraid - fuck, I thought if it was only alcohol it was reversible, that it wouldn’t count, I guess.

_Then I realized I didn’t care all that much if I lived or died._ _Then I grew up and I saw the world for what it really was, and I didn’t want to drown in it while sane._

“Not like it mattered. I changed my mind, years ago.” Michael watched the end of Luke’s cigarette flare, then dim. “I don’t want to live sober anymore.”

Michael pressed his fingers to his temples and corrected himself. “I don’t think I  _ can _ live sober anymore.”

The silence between them was filled with darkness. Michael felt empty, used, a shell of the version of him that had died at seventeen. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel human again. Soon he’d be swept up by the Sydney wind and scattered in the starless sky, like dust, ashes, nothing but a ghost in the night. 

He was brought back to earth when Luke spoke. “I wanted to be famous, you know.”

Michael leaned his head back on the concrete and watched Luke’s profile. He didn’t think he’d be able to talk, so he stayed quiet, eyes tracing the bright star of Luke’s cigarette.

“I wanted to be in a band and tour the world. I knew it would never happen. So, I went to university instead, and I couldn’t do that, either. I… had to live on my own. You ever fucking wonder how I got here?” The amused lilt to his voice ended with a sigh. Michael could tell it was a rhetorical question, so he stayed quiet.

Luke gestured to the floor under them and the rooftop around them. “This is me, trying to prove that I can live on my own, and that I can do something with my life. I wanted to be a fucking studio musician, that’s all I fucking wanted when I couldn’t be anything else, but I can’t even get that.”

He wasn’t angry, which was what Michael found jarring, listening to Luke talk about his life. He just sounded disappointed and exhausted - it was an exhaustion that Michael felt in his bones.

Luke waved his hand again, indicating his apartment, his situation, his life. “This is me, proving I can’t do anything. It’s all so fucking-” Luke rubbed a hand over his face, cutting himself off. 

Quietly, he said, “Sorry.”

Michael reached over and took the cigarette out from between Luke’s fingers. Luke didn’t resist, but shot Michael a look he couldn’t make out in the dark. He looked almost like a kid without it; mop of hair over his face, drawing his knees up to hold them with his entwined hands, lips in an unhappy twist. 

Michael put the cigarette to his own mouth and took a drag. 

“Don’t-” Luke’s hand, outstretched, barely brushed Michael’s arm. Michael raised his eyebrows. Luke gave him another indiscernible look, brow furrowed, and Michael let out a bark of a laugh, smoke escaping his lungs, cigarette still between his fingers. Luke’s jaw set and his eyes narrowed.

“It’s okay,” Michael said, giving him back the cigarette with a grim smile. “That’s your poison, not mine.”

“Still poison,” Luke muttered.

Michael used to smoke, but somehow he’d never gotten irreparably hooked. Weed had been a problem for him, but that was easy to get over when he was drunk. Nicotine was addictive, sure, but it didn’t slow his thoughts in the same careless, graceful manner as alcohol did. He felt the nicotine in Luke’s cigarette filter through his veins.

Without thinking about it, Michael pushed himself to stand and turned to look out over Redfern. On top of a three-story building, he could see anywhere from two to five blocks in every direction. Most of the shops and storefronts still had their lights on, so the street below was a pretty sight, even to his fucked-up state of mind and impulsive thoughts. The wind battered his ears and messed up his hair. 

He was gripped with a notion and swung his legs over the half-meter thick concrete ledge to sit down. His feet dangled over the side of the building. Adrenaline - the good kind, the same kind as last night, when he’d cut his hair - pulsed through him, and he savoured it.

Cold fingers curled around Michael’s wrist, and he almost jumped out of his skin before he realized it was only Luke. Luke, who was still sitting on the safe side of the ledge, head tilted back to meet Michael’s gaze, his hand reaching up to where Michael was leaning on his palms. “Be careful,” Luke whispered, voice torn to pieces by the wind.

Michael shrugged, ripping his eyes away from Luke’s. “It’s a pretty view. You ever sit up here?”

Luke was quiet, but his fingers remained on Michael’s wrist. Michael shifted his weight so he wasn’t leaning on his hands and lifted the one Luke was touching, sliding it out of his grip until he could twine their fingers together. Luke squeezed his hand briefly and held on.

Mind a whirlwind, Michael let his eyes dance over the lights in the street. Luke was holding his hand, very much alive, very much  _ there, _ and Michael was on top of a building, almost fifteen meters in the air, free. Michael felt like he wanted to cry, he wanted to shout, scream, punch something, dig his nails into something that would hurt, kick something that would shatter into a million pieces, bite down on something until his jaw snapped. He wanted to hold Luke’s hand and trust him, he wanted to call Luke’s apartment  _ home _ , he wanted to be  _ alive, awake _ . He wanted to lean off the edge of the rooftop and see what it would feel like to fall, fall, fall, through stars and sky and hard, rough concrete. 

Luke’s hand was soft and unsuspecting, but it was wound tight, and Michael didn’t know what would happen if he slipped off the ledge and fell. 

He’d probably hold on and end up breaking his fucking arm. Michael huffed at the thought. It would look ridiculous. 

Michael leaned backwards and picked the cigarette directly out of Luke’s mouth with his free hand. It was short, so his fingers brushed Luke’s lips, and he knew it would take a long time for that memory to fade. Luke made an aggrieved noise and tugged at their joined hands.

“No- look here,” Michael said. He held Luke’s cigarette between his thumb and index finger above the ledge. Luke turned his head and eyed the cigarette.

“What?”

“You said you wanted to quit.”

Luke grunted. “Doesn’t mean I  _ can _ quit.”

“Well, let me help you.” Michael only knew that he wanted to offer - not  _ why _ he wanted to offer. The cigarette flared and dimmed in the changing wind currents. 

“And how are you going to do that?”   
  


In answer, Michael tossed the cigarette off the side of the building. They both watched it fall until it was out of sight. 

“That’s effective,” Luke allowed, giving Michael a watchful look. Michael knew he probably had more cigarettes in his jacket, but he wasn’t going to get bothered over those. Luke shook his head, then was looking off towards the far side of the roof, neck twisted away from Michael, and Michael caught himself staring at the indent at the base of his throat, skin cast pale grey in the moonlight. He caught himself trailing his eyes over Luke’s jawline, the shadowy hollow under his high cheekbones, the straight line of his nose, edged with silver. He forced himself to close his eyes and turn away. Tonight was confusing enough.

“Well?” He asked.

“Well what?”

“Do you want me to help you quit?” He was offering up himself for the job that he’d never had anyone to fill; the person who kept him on track, made sure he got clean in the end. 

Luke seemed to consider it. He was desperate, in a way - Michael knew that look, that same look that he’d worn so many times. 

“Only if I can help you quit, too.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.” Michael didn’t know what he wanted; he didn’t know if he wanted to stay sober, he didn’t know if he wanted to drown himself again. Which was better? Was the real world as dark as he made it out to be? Was staying sober worth reality? Did he want to climb or sink?

“It is now,” Luke said, with finality. He looked up at Michael and waited for a response.

Michael stared out at the city and felt the call of the void in the back of his head. The open air under his feet felt like an invitation. He focused instead on Luke’s hand; the fine bones in his fingers, trimmed nails, a wrist tempered skinny by the bite of malnutrition, soft skin that had warmed up against his own. 

It wasn’t even a question, was it? He would condemn Luke to his nicotine addiction if he allowed himself the chance at a blackout-drunk fuck-the-world existence again. He wanted to tell Luke it wasn’t fair. But it was fair, and he could convince Luke of nothing, not when Luke was still looking at him with those dark, set, stony eyes, the breath of cigarette smoke just out of reach, leather jacket with the collar flipped up over a black Led Zeppelin shirt, holding his hand. 

“Fine.”

Strange hope clenched in his chest.

Luke squeezed his hand. “Deal.”

  
  


**11**

_ That the center of the earth is the end of the world _

The next morning, Michael woke up when the sun was already burning through the clouds. He had been thinking too much to sleep last night.

Michael felt hungry and shitty and too tired to stand up but too awake to fall asleep again. He couldn’t go back to sleep anyway, because he had to go back to La Coppola to give Ashley his filled-in application forms and get his shift schedule. Fucking hell. He had a job now. And responsibilities that extended further than keeping his own body alive.

Which brought him back to Luke. Strange, lonely, twenty-three year old Luke, with too many dreams he’d had to give up on, a nicotine addiction, a head full of thoughts that Michael couldn’t read, and a desperate need to prove himself capable of something. Luke, who had held Michael’s hand last night when Michael had gone too close to the edge of the roof and made him promise to let Luke help save him. Michael hadn’t told Luke that there was a small bottle of stolen vodka under the kitchen sink. Something angry and unpleasant in the pit of his stomach had stopped him.

Rubbing his eyes, Michael rolled off the couch, forcing himself to wake up. He picked himself off the floor and smoothed down his shirt. He didn’t have any other clothes, still, but he was more than used to wearing the same ones for days on end.

Luke wasn’t in the main room, but there was a very gentle pluck of guitar strings coming from his bedroom. Michael shoved his hands through his hair, untangling it with brute force, and knocked on Luke’s door, thinking, fuck it.

“Hey?” Michael called.

There was a squeal of springs, and a moment later, the door swung open. Luke was standing there, holding his black telecaster across his hips with his right arm, hair a mess. It was a mess that Michael felt the inexplicable urge to run his hands through. His eyes were bright, the exact shade of blue that Michael never quite remembered, so every time he saw it it felt new again. 

“Oh, you’re up. Hi.” He gave Michael an easy smile.

“Do you have any other old clothes?” Michael jumped straight to the point. Last night they’d shared secrets and promised to help each other through addiction. He figured he could treat Luke like a friend now.

“I think so. Here, let me look.” Luke looked around for a place to put his guitar, found nowhere, then held it out for Michael to take. Michael took it after a split second’s hesitation and held it with his arm across the body like he’d seen Luke do. He followed Luke to the closet, keeping an eye on the headstock to make sure he didn’t hit it against anything.

“Fuck, I have a lot of band shirts. Uh, let’s see…”

There weren’t that many old shirts, but it was more than Michael had owned for the last few years. The majority had band logos on the front. A Green Day shirt with the American Idiot grenade caught his eye. 

“You like Green Day?” Michael gestured at it.

“Yeah.” Luke picked up the shirt. “That’s gotta be their best album. American Idiot. Or the one after it. 21st Century Breakdown.”

“I like Dookie.”

Luke nodded, a smile curling his lips. “Yeah, that one’s good.”

Michael glanced at the window briefly, reminding himself he had to go back to La Coppola around eleven today. The day was bright already, so he probably had to leave soon.

“Did you have breakfast already?”

Luke raised his eyebrows at Michael. He picked up the Green Day shirt, dug around in the drawer for socks and underwear, then handed the bundle to Michael. “No, but if you’re going to, I’ll eat too.”

Michael traded Luke’s guitar for the clothes and nodded. “I’m gonna take a shower first.”

“Sounds good.” Luke offered another tiny smile. Michael found it all too easy to hold his gaze for longer than necessary - he was smiling like he was happy to see Michael. Michael couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like that, and the fact he was so aware of it scared him in a few ways he didn’t want to admit. It was making him feel too close to Luke. Luke was just being…  _ normal. _ Michael needed to acclimatize himself to Luke’s friendliness and not take anything too much to heart. 

But that wouldn’t stop him from being friendly right back, because he did want to be Luke’s friend. He just had to pay attention; he couldn’t afford to get too close. 

\---

After Michael’s shower, he dropped his old clothes in a pile outside the bathroom door and went out into the kitchen. Luke was holding a carton of orange juice, and raised it, asking a silent question. 

Nodding, Michael gestured at the carton. “When’d you get that?”

Luke shrugged and poured him some. “I went out this morning. I also got some fruit. There’s an apple in the fridge for you, if you want.”

“Nice,” Michael said, appreciatively. Were apples supposed to be kept in the fridge? Michael couldn’t remember the last time he had one.

They sat down and started eating. Michael was hurrying slightly, not knowing exactly how long it would take for him to walk down to Coppola, but not wanting to arrive late. It would make him look bad. And he already had enough things that made him look like a bad candidate for a job - he couldn’t really afford to make a slip.

“When’d you get your tattoos?”

Michael glanced up. Luke waved his spoon in the direction of Michael’s right elbow. The stark black bands were clearly visible below the cuff of his t-shirt, night black against his pale skin. Michael looked back down, noncommittal. “Didn’t you ask me that already?”

Luke tilted his head and pulled a  _ so what _ expression. Then he nodded at Michael’s other arm, higher up. “Well, not for the other one. What about that one? And what does it say?”

Fucking right. He had another tattoo. Of course Luke would have picked that one to ask about. Michael lifted his arm and pulled his sleeve back, grudgingly, for Luke to see better, and read it out loud. “It says ‘to the moon.’”

He’d gotten it when he was seventeen, the night after he’d left home.  _ To the moon _ . It was what his mum used to say to him, when he was a kid.  _ I love you to the moon _ . It was a bittersweet memory; evidence she used to love him as much as she should have, but a reminder she didn’t love him like that anymore. Sometimes he wished he’d never gotten it, and sometimes he forgot it was there. Most of the people he associated with, when they saw his tattoos, they ignored them, so it had been easy to forget.

“Did it hurt?”

“What?” Michael snapped, jarred out of his thoughts. He hadn’t meant to. Luke’s eyes were wide for a split second, betraying his surprise. Michael took a breath, bracing himself to apologize, when Luke cut him off before he could start.

“It’s okay. I don’t need to kn- you don’t need to tell me about them.”

Michael took a bite of his cereal and didn’t meet Luke’s eyes. He sensed an apology from Luke coming up, and he felt pissed off at the very idea. Maybe Luke would forget about it and drop the subject if Michael didn’t acknowledge him.

Luke hurried on. “Really. I was just… interested. I don’t have any. Sorry.”

He didn’t sound especially sorry, only discontented. Michael took small relief in that. He shrugged, fixing a small smile to his face. “Nah, it’s fine. Yeah, it hurt a bit. It was actually my first tattoo.”

“Oh, neat,” Luke said. Michael didn’t meet his gaze, but he felt Luke’s eyes on him; watching, slightly narrowed, searching. He didn’t know if he should feel uncomfortable or angry about it. He settled for ignoring him. Some things he wanted to keep a secret. He felt like he’d told Luke too much last night already - too much for Luke to forget about him if he turned around and left without a trace someday. Dropping anchors in too many places would catch up to him later. 

This same ruefulness clung to him like a beast with hooked claws, hesitant to be shaken off, when he left the apartment ten minutes later to take his application forms down to Ashley at La Coppola. Luke wished him a short goodbye and good luck on his way out. 

\---

“When can you start?”

Michael blinked. He’d handed his forms in a minute ago for them to be checked over and officially approved. Ashley was standing, balancing her laptop on one hand and hitting keys with the other. “Whenever?” He offered. 

“You free tomorrow? That’s Monday. We need coverage from two till ten.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Michael wondered when he’d get his first paycheque. He was working at minimum wage, so it wouldn’t be a staggering amount, but damn if he wasn’t looking forward to finally having some money to his name again. Not specifically  _ his _ name. He’d take it out of Luke’s account as soon as possible to correct that.

Ashley consulted her calendar. “What about Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays? For regular. I’ll contact you for any extra shifts, or any changes.”

“Yeah, that’s good. I can do more days, if you need.”

“Let me add you to Saturday, then, too. It’s shorter, because we close earlier. I’ll email the details when I have a second. All good?”

Michael nodded. “That’s great. Thank you.”

The kitchen was busy, and Ashley didn’t really have an office, only a plastic divider curtain, so the noise of pots and dishes being set down clanged through Michael’s head. Ashley appeared unaffected, used to the commotion.

“One last thing,” Ashley said, holding up her index finger. She was wearing the same clothes today as she had been yesterday, but her blue and purple hair was done back in a tidy, short french braid on top of her head. A pencil was tucked behind her ear. “Do you know anyone else who needs a job? More specifically, any waiter, waitress types?”   
  


Waiter types. No, he didn’t know anyone at all, really, except Luke. Antisocial Luke, who was probably sitting in his apartment alone recording guitar and vocal tracks for strangers online. Well, he sure as fuck needed a job, even if he wasn’t a waiter type.

Michael hesitated. “Actually, I do, I know-”

“Woah, really? That never works. One sec.” Ashley put her computer down with a bang, excitement palpable. “Do you have a name? Or contact details?”

“Oh, I- yeah. Actually, it’s the same number on my form. He’s- we’re roommates.”

Luke was going to hate him so much. Michael remembered when he suggested Luke get a job, and Luke reacted- well, oddly, like he didn’t want to think about it. Well, it was worth a shot, even if Luke turned it down as soon as it came up. It would be nice to have company on his shifts.

“Okay. You can just tell him, then, that he should come in for a job interview sometime. Preferably,” Ashley added, shooting Michael a look, brows arched, “with a resume. And not at rush hour. That’s from six to nine here.”

Michael nodded dutifully. “Right. I will. Uh, thanks.”

Ashley waved her hand, focusing on her computer screen. “I’ll email you. Thanks to you too, and see you tomorrow. Come half an hour before two, if you can, for orientation.”

Michael nodded again. He left the restaurant with determination in his step, raging a war in his head that he absolved by pointedly walking back to Luke’s apartment as fast as possible. He wasn’t about to let his mind drag him under again. Getting drunk was quickly becoming not an option anymore; he didn’t know what his and Luke’s last-night deal entailed, and they still needed to discuss it, but he technically wasn’t on his own in his fight anymore. Whatever that meant. Something had changed for him, though. Feeling anything to extreme degrees was uncomfortable, something he still ached to quell with alcohol, but there were some emotions associated somehow with Luke that he didn’t want to lose. Life was shit, but it wasn’t entirely shit. Getting drunk and forgetting what it felt like to sit on the roof at night, to hear the open air right below, to hold Luke’s hand - he didn’t like the idea. 

There was something disturbing about how his outlook on life was changing. He blocked up the seeping fear that threatened at the floorboards of his heart. He didn’t like not knowing who he was; he didn’t like realizing some of his outlooks had changed, that he was replacing the things he’d held onto for so long, the things that kept him safe and sane for years. 

The fact he gave a shit about his life now scared him. He was losing pieces, and he was angry about every single one.

  
  


**12**

_ I can be right here empty with you _

Luke was waiting for him when he got back. Apparently shy, lonely Luke was perfectly capable of being confrontational, too, which shouldn’t have been a surprise to Michael, since his very first night in Luke’s apartment ended with him being physically restrained by the other man for the simple crime of trying to leave. Maybe that was why Luke didn’t have any friends, Michael thought, surly.

“The fuck is on your head?” Michael asked.

Luke was standing less than half a meter away from Michael, wearing a towel hat, looking like he’d recently had a shower. Michael knew what was on his head, he just wanted to see Luke explain it. And maybe explain why he’d felt the need to come right over to the door the second he heard Michael unlock it. 

“I- it’s a towel?” Luke said, nonplussed. His face was clean-shaven, but probably done with a dull razor, because the stubble was still visible. He wore nice clothes; similar to how he’d been dressed the night Michael had met him. It was a definite change from the hoodie and jeans he’d been wearing for the past couple of days. 

Luke huffed a frustrated sigh. He was close enough that Michael could see his blue irises with striking clarity. He was staring into Michael’s eyes, too, and Michael made himself look back, ruthlessly. He could play the staring game all day if he was in the right mindset. It helped that Luke’s eyes were so easy to watch.

Luke’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re still sober, right?”

Michael let out a long sigh and let his gaze wander elsewhere. “Fucking hell, yeah. I just went to the restaurant and came back.”

Luke studied him for another second, then gave him a smile and stepped back. “Cool.”

Okay, then. Michael shook his head and went past Luke to go sit on the couch, patting him on the shoulder as he passed. He felt Luke stiffen under his hand, but when he looked back, there was no ill will in his expression. Just a hesitant smile. Under his stupid, ridiculous towel hat that Michael had only ever seen girls put their hair in. Whatever. It was nice.

“We actually should talk about that,” Michael said. “What are, like, the details, of our agreement?”

Luke shook his hair out of the towel hat, temporarily distracting Michael. Damp blond curls fell into Luke’s eyes, and the white button-down dress shirt he was wearing was showing enough neck and chest that Michael made himself look away. It was fine. Everything was fine, and Luke was his friend, and he was mentally stable enough to handle his own thoughts. 

Luke shrugged. “Yeah. It’s gonna be kind of hard if you go out a lot, but at least I can make sure you don’t bring anything back, you know.”

_ Right _ . The bottle under the sink lurked, hidden away, at the back of his mind. “You still have your cigarettes, right?”

“I have some left. I think I’ll ration them over the next week? One every other day. Then I won’t buy any more.”

“One every other day. I’ll keep that in mind.” And Michael would. He’d be paying attention.

Luke nodded. “You’ve gone cold turkey, I guess?”

“Yeah.”

“How many days has it been?”

Michael calculated. It was Sunday, and he’d been staying at Luke’s apartment for - two nights, already, so he’d arrived on Friday night. It was Wednesday when he had checked into rehab, so that would have been his last day drinking, and he’d checked out of rehab Thursday night, but he stayed clean past then. “This is day four.”

Luke leaned against the wall beside his bedroom door and crossed his arms over his chest. He seemed to consider Michael for a moment.

“Are you good with… this?”

Glancing up, Michael read a mixed expression on Luke’s face. He raised his eyebrows, searching for an elaboration, fiddling absently with his hands.

“Like, this is what you want, right? You want to get clean. For good. And it’s fine that I’m helping you do it.”

It was a blend of things: frustrating, gratifying, vexing, and terrifying, because he was counting on someone else as much as he was counting on himself. Everything seemed… new to him, now. This was something different. All the other times he’d sobered up for a few days had left him feeling empty, shitty, careless, wretched; this time, he was hopeful, and he was determined to help Luke, too. Michael nodded. “Yeah.”

A few moments of silence passed. Michael turned his attention to the material of the jeans he was wearing, and picked at it, trying to figure out how to introduce the topic of getting a job at La Coppola to Luke. He wasn’t extremely worried about keeping Luke’s nicotine addiction under control; Luke seemed to be capable of moderating it himself, at least for now, but Michael was sure as hell still going to keep an eye on him. 

“So,” Luke started. He stretched his arms in front of him with a yawn, cracking his knuckle joints in one go. “When d’you work?”

\---

As Luke booted up Michael’s email account on his Macbook Air, Michael repeated his scheduled work days, standing over Luke’s shoulder and watching his computer screen run the same loading animation over and over.

“I start tomorrow at two, so there’s Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and then Saturday. I don’t know what the times are, exactly, but the manager, Ashley, said she’d email them to me.”

The tab finished loading, and a new email showed up in Michael’s inbox. With trepidation, Michael added, offhand, “Oh, and there was something else she said, about another job, actually, that-”

“-remember to tell your friend to drop by sometime.” Luke read from the screen. He turned around and looked up at Michael, eyes narrowed, accusing. “Is that me? What did you say?”

Michael bent down closer to the screen, resting his fingers on the back of Luke’s chair lightly. The email started with a greeting, then a timetable of his scheduled hours, then a comment on the end that read “Concerning the waiter job - remember to tell your friend to drop by sometime.”

“Ah,” Michael said, unhelpfully. He realized he was leaning farther into Luke’s personal space than he probably should. He could smell Luke’s hair, and suddenly he remembered a piece of the night he met Luke in vivid detail: his body weak and unsteady, locked in Luke’s arms, face pressed into Luke’s shoulder. Fucking hell, that was the first time someone had literally, physically held him in months. Why was he thinking about- Michael mentally shook himself and leaned out of Luke’s space. Luke was still looking at him with uncertainty.

“That’s an email from Ashley. She asked if I knew anyone who needed- who could work a job, because they need another waiter, apparently, and I said I did.”

“I already have a job,” Luke said, stubbornly.

Michael sighed. “Yeah. You don’t have to. I just thought I’d offer, because the pay’s probably better. Better than my position, anyway, and you’d get tips, so that’s not a bad deal. And you’d know someone working there, so.”

Michael trailed off and bit his tongue, wondering if he’d said too much, pushed too hard. There was no point hiding it - he wanted Luke to take the job. Combined, they could probably earn $1000 AUD a week, and maybe Luke could afford some better food, and feed himself more than twice a day. 

Luke stared at the email, biting his lip. “Michael, I…”

Michael straightened and nodded. So he wasn’t going to take it. Michael wanted to ask why the fuck not, but he figured it would be personal, so he didn’t. He handled his disappointment with something ideally close to grace and looked out the window to see dark clouds beginning to cover the sky. It was going to rain. 

He glanced back to Luke, who had lifted his hand to bite at his thumbnail. Luke was looking at his guitar, remorse lacing his expression, eyes dark. Michael let him battle out whatever crisis he was dealing with in silence, and started moving towards the door into the main room.

“I’ll do it,” Luke said, the words spilling from his mouth. “I’ll go down sometime.”

Michael released a relieved breath before he could stop himself. Turning around, he gave Luke a grin, and found a hesitant smile directed back at him. “That’s great. Awesome. I’ll tell Ashley tomorrow, unless you want to go down by yourself.”

Luke nodded, but his smile was faltering, and his mouth twisted into a dissatisfied shape, complete with the irritable shifting of his jaw. Michael raised an eyebrow at him, questioning. 

“What’s up?” He asked, not knowing whether or not Luke would answer, but wanting to let Luke know that he cared. Because he did care. He did care. Fuck, he wasn’t himself anymore, he needed to- he needed to do something. There wasn’t anything he could do to fix it, and he fought down the urge to kick the wall. 

Luke’s blue, blue eyes searched Michael’s face for a moment before he answered. When he did, it was just: “I want to make music.”

Luke’s soft tone made Michael’s brain calm down. “You still can, even if you have another job, you know.” 

And of course Luke knew that, but Michael didn’t know what else to say. He had understood what Luke meant as soon as he said  _ I want to make music. _ Anything else was a step down, a defeat of sorts, a side project that took away from what he thought was important. Well. Luke was just going to have to grit his teeth and pull through. 

“Yeah,” Luke said. He still looked listless, and he was picking at his nails with obvious frustration, and Michael didn’t know what to do, so he stepped closer and nudged at the side of Luke’s shoulder with his knuckles. It was a light tap, meant to be comforting, but Luke turned his head so fast towards Michael’s hand that Michael froze. He stared at Michael’s hand for a split second. Then he reached up and touched his cold fingers to Michael’s palm, eyes thoughtful and distant, like he wasn’t even present. It lasted a short moment, lengthened by Michael’s accelerating heart, and when Luke lowered his hand and shook Michael off, he seemed more at ease. Well, Michael thought faintly, at least that worked. 

Luke stood up abruptly. “Do you think your boss will mind if I go down to see her now?”

Michael stared at him. “Now?”

“Yeah, why not. Come with me.” Luke clicked on the reply button, attached a file that Michael assumed was a resume, sent it off, and was up and out of the room, leaving Michael to follow.

\---

“Getting kind of cold outside, isn’t it?”

“Luke, you sit on the roof at night,” Michael said, exasperated. He was walking beside Luke, down the sidewalk on Regent Street, and it was a cold, blustery, cloudy Sunday afternoon, with a hint of rain on the air. Luke’s shoes were making him maddeningly taller than Michael. His golden-blond hair contrasted pleasantly with his black jacket, and the sunlight made his face look pale and washed-out, but he had a confident smile secured on his face, and he looked happy. 

Luke hummed in reply and turned his head, following the rumble of a passing motorcycle. Michael rolled his eyes. However unexpected this was, he was enjoying walking with Luke, whatever that meant. He found himself wondering if Luke thought twice about being seen in public with him. Luke seemed relatively unworried at the moment, so he abandoned the thought.

“Oh, this place,” Luke said, with benevolent recognition. They were outside La Coppola. “I’ve been here before, I think.”

“Is that a good thing?” Michael opened the door for him. Luke shot him a grateful look and stepped inside.

Speaking much quieter now that they were inside, and closer to Michael’s ear, Luke said, “They have good pizza.”

Michael wondered briefly when Luke had gotten around to buying pizza at a restaurant. It must have been a long while ago. 

Luke stayed next to Michael, bordering the line of too close, when he went further into the restaurant. It should have bothered him, but it didn’t. Michael looked around the restaurant and took in some more details he hadn’t picked up the last times he’d been in, as if he was seeing it afresh from Luke’s perspective: there was a row of booths on the left side, behind the stained glass and wood divider in front of the door, and the floors were grey stone tile. The tables were rickety, and obviously not attached to the ground. The entire restaurant was lit well from the windows facing the street.

Ashley was where Michael had seen her last, sitting at her messy desk in the room barely removed from the kitchen. The busy kitchen staff had let him and Luke duck past with nothing but a suspicious look that Michael returned with a short smile. He’d be working with them tomorrow, so he’d better make some friends.

“Hey Michael, back already?” Ashley’s gaze fell on Luke. “Oh, is this the friend?”

Michael stepped slightly away from Luke and nodded. “Yeah. Is now a good time?” 

“Good enough of a time, especially if you brought a resume,” Ashley shrugged. She stood up and came around her desk. Michael shifted away - he should probably leave so Luke could do his interview in peace. Luke sent him a fast look before he could turn away, a few million expressions flickering over his face, landing on panic then smoothing over into polite curiosity.

What? Michael searched Luke’s face. Luke didn’t look all that nervous, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t. Michael swallowed his confusion and idled for a few more seconds.

Ashley, standing in front of Luke, offered her hand to shake, which Luke took. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ashley.”

“Luke,” Luke offered in return. Michael shot him one last look, staring hard at the side of Luke’s face, before he turned and wandered back out into the restaurant, leaving Luke alone. Ashley was nice. It would go well. Michael tried not to regret abandoning Luke. It wasn’t abandoning; it just felt like it, especially when Luke had looked at him like that.

With a heavy sigh, Michael leaned against the back wall of La Coppola and crossed his arms. Sunlight hazed in through the windows, basking floors and tables in cold light. It was pretty, for winter. Michael usually preferred the colours of summer or spring and the bright turquoise blue of the Sydney ocean. The white light on stone tiles gave off a dazy calm feeling instead.

A few minutes passed in silence. Michael watched a few people arrive at the restaurant for lunch, then sit down near the windows. He caught snatches of Luke and Ashley’s conversation in the kitchen, but wasn’t able to make out any full sentences. He thought about Luke’s face and hair in the moonlight on the rooftop last night. He thought about Luke’s hands and eyes and the fiery star of a cigarette between his lips. It was okay to think about Luke, he reassured himself. He was living with the guy, after all. Just - as long as - fuck, what was he doing, Luke was his  _ friend, _ his roommate, that was all. That was all. 

“Hey,” Luke greeted him, vaguely out of breath. He leaned on the wall beside Michael, close to him, barely brushing their shoulders together. 

“Hey.” Michael turned his head and gave Luke a hesitant once-over. “What happened? Did you get it?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, awesome,” Michael crowed. He held his hand out for a fist bump and was relieved when Luke returned it. “Let’s get out of here.”

  
  


**13**

_ When I'm standing top the bright lit city  _

Luke spent the rest of the afternoon playing guitar in his room alone. Michael was left to enjoy the main room all by himself. He ended up stealing a notepad from Luke’s desk and playing tic tac toe by himself to pass the time - he started drawing things instead, after tic tac toe got boring. Then he continued the drawings onto his hand and wrist, having to stop halfway up his forearm because the pen ran out of ink. He spent the next half hour rubbing at it, regretting the swirls and spirals and shapes and Xs. They only faded partially under water and soap in the kitchen sink. Michael turned on the TV, flipped through the channels for too long, settled on a network running previews of the documentary Planet Earth, and let his eyes glaze over watching that.

Two things were very prevalent in his mind: Luke and alcohol. Bouncing between them gave some relief, but Michael didn’t like thinking about either. Both gave him twisting feelings in his chest; Luke’s was accompanied by strange fluttering weightlessness, like his feet weren’t on the ground anymore, and the alcohol was accompanied by twitching fingers and nervous drumming. Anxiety clouded his thoughts, and he watched the afternoon sky darken with growing trepidation.

Michael ached for something he didn’t know how to articulate. It was something he’d had so little of, growing up; some vague sense of comfort, like a mother telling him everything was going to be okay, the world was going to keep turning, life would go on. Too much these days he felt like he was standing on a precipice without anything to hold on to. He used to hold onto alcohol. Now there was nothing.

Michael wrapped his arms around himself and curled up on the couch, tucking his knees up to his chin. He felt like he could taste the sour breath of vodka in the back of his throat - a whisper of a taunting memory. He swallowed, hard, and shut his eyes.  _ Luke’s hand, _ his brain screamed.  _ Bottle under the sink. _ Luke’s hand, on the roof last night, skin soft and warm and Michael had never wanted to hold a person’s hand so much in his entire fucking life. He was touch starved. That’s what it was. That’s all it was. He was lonely and fucked up. Bottle under the sink. He wasn’t that fucked up, not yet. It would be there for him when he needed it.

Dinner would be soon. Michael locked the thought into place in his head and forced himself to stand up. He went into the kitchen and checked the time on the microwave - it read 5:41.

Four and a half days, he thought to himself. He’d gone four and a half days without drinking. That had to be his record; he didn’t think he would have lasted so long in any other place, at any other time. What a fucking celebration this was. 

\---

Later that night, long after dinner, Michael was sitting at Luke’s desk, sketching on the same notepad with a different pen. Luke’s phone was facedown on the desk beside his hand. He was using Luke’s shitty earbuds to listen to the entirety of Siamese Dream by the Smashing Pumpkins. Luke seemed to feel bad about leaving Michael to do nothing by himself for hours in the afternoon, so he offered up his phone for entertainment, and Michael requested music, so there he was. He felt like he was in a trance.

A light tap on his shoulder jarred Michael back to his senses. Luke was behind him. Michael turned around and took his earbuds out.

“Hey. Uh. Here’s all my cigarettes. I’m going up to the roof now, I just wanted you to know I left them here.” Luke dropped all three on the desk. 

Michael nodded. Luke looked drawn, more so than usual, and he had his leather jacket curled around himself protectively, like the wings of a bat. His white button-down shirt from the morning was crumpled slightly, and his hair was disheveled, as if in anticipation of the night wind. Michael forced himself not to reach over and touch Luke to make sure he was real. He knew Luke was real. Luke was the realest thing Michael knew.

“Okay. Thanks for letting me use your phone.” Some gratitude was in order, for that at least.

Luke waved it off, moving away and towards the door. “You can take it whenever.” 

Fucking hell, okay. If Michael ever got himself a phone he’d guard it with his life. He was glad not everybody shared his values. 

“Bye,” Luke said, channeling his shy awkwardness, as he pulled open the door. He gave Michael a small smile and a short wave, and was gone, disappearing down the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.

Michael let out a long breath. Alone again. He picked up one of Luke’s cigarettes and rolled it against the table absently, remembering how Luke’s lips felt against his fingers last night, when he’d reached over and taken one from his mouth. Nice. It had felt nice. Michael flipped Luke’s phone over and hit pause on the song he’d been listening to. A notification at the bottom of the screen caught his eye; it was a text from an unknown number, which would have been forgettable if the message was some marketing scam, but it read something more personal.  _ Mum says she misses you. _

Okay, Michael was going to forget he’d read that, because obviously it was not for him to read. He closed the phone and flipped it over again, taking his earbuds out.  _ Mum says she misses you. _ Michael didn’t know anything about Luke’s family, or his past at all, but he wasn’t going to be able to find it out by reading iMessage notifications. 

Standing, Michael stretched his arms over his head, then yawned. He had known without having to decide what he was going to do as soon as Luke left - he was going to follow him up again.

So he did. Jacket and shoes on, turn right down the hallway, go up two flights of stairs, push open the heavy  _ Personnel Only _ door, and he was on the roof, the same golden glow from the buzzing halogen light being cast across the uneven black tar. Wind buffeted his ears and filled them with white noise. Motors being revved on the streets below faded in and out. Cold air pierced through his thin windbreaker. Luke was where he’d been the night before, but he was sitting sideways against the concrete, neck craned so he could look out at the city lights. He noticed Michael approaching when Michael was a few steps away.

“Hey again,” he said. He sounded happy to see Michael, and he patted a spot next to him, indicating Michael sit there. Michael obliged. Luke turned away from the skyline and settled down next to Michael.

Michael remembered the thrill of adrenaline he’d gotten last night, when he’d sat on the very edge of the roof and kicked his feet over the open air. Tonight, he didn’t want to fantasize about falling.

Without thinking too hard, Michael closed the distance between him and Luke, shuffling a few centimeters closer until their shoulders were touching. Luke didn’t move away, and though his face was in shadow from the clouded-over sky, Michael thought he saw Luke turn imperceptibly towards him, in a sort of gentle acknowledgement. 

The urge for comfort, some kind of physical contact, anything, flooded Michael’s brain, and he pushed closer against the side of Luke’s body, drinking in the drug of his body heat. He felt Luke curl towards him, minutely, and slouch down slightly - he seemed to grapple with hesitation, then leaned against Michael. His head fell lightly on Michael’s shoulder a second later. Michael’s mind went into overdrive. 

“What are you thinking about?” Luke almost whispered, his voice rising slightly above the wind, low and soft and very close to Michael. 

And obviously he was looking for something like ‘going to work tomorrow’ or ‘I wish you had videogames in your apartment’, but all Michael could think about was the weight of Luke’s head on his shoulder, the smell of his hair and that specific kind of cologne Michael was starting to really like, and how little space actually was between them. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“I don’t know,” he said, after probably too long. A shitty answer seemed appropriate when faced with truthful options. 

_ You,  _ Michael shouted, internally.  _ I’m thinking about you. I can’t think about anything else. _

“Do you think it’s worth it?” Luke was whispering now, but Michael could still hear him.

“What’s worth it?”

Luke held up his hands, palms up, deathly pale in the night. “Giving up things. You said you didn’t think you could live sober.”

Michael made a hum in his throat and reached out to Luke’s hands. He took one of them - cold, thin, just as he remembered - and tugged it down to rest on his leg, under his own hand. Okay, he really was going insane now.

“Your hands are cold,” he mused, bypassing Luke’s question. He didn’t know how to answer it. For Luke, yes, it was worth it to give up cigarettes. They’d kill him before fifty if he kept it up. For Michael? Michael hadn’t used to care at all if he died; he was more holding on to life because it was routine, normal, familiar, and he didn’t want to know what came after death. He wasn’t religious, but his parents were Catholic, so he had an idea of hell and heaven. And he had no doubt about which one he’d fall into when his death came to pass. 

Luke willinging surrendered the hand that Michael had captured, letting him hold it between his own, and raised his other at chest height in front of himself. It was pretty clear to both of them that it was trembling. Luke sighed and lowered his hand, clenching it in and out of a fist.

“That’ll pass,” Michael mumbled, all too aware of the delicate shape of Luke’s other hand between his own fingers. He turned his face into Luke’s hair and let his eyelids fall shut.

“Is it worth it?” Luke asked again, stubbornly. The vibrations of his voice thrummed into Michael’s shoulder. Michael suppressed a shiver.

“Yeah.” He hoped it would be for Luke. Fuck, even for him, he hoped it would be. Life, death, and everything in between; he didn’t want to give up this feeling, the feeling of being alive. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to get better.

A train whistle sounded in the distance, and the ensuing rumble of engines cut through the night air.  _ He wanted to get better. _ It was a new thought in Michael’s mind, and it gnawed away at the hard shell around his heart, persistent. Fear came with it, and anger tagged along, because Michael knew he was afraid of change and he didn’t want to change, he didn’t want to wake up and not know who he was anymore.

In a brief effort to distract himself, Michael concentrated on Luke’s blond curls. “What are you thinking about?” Michael whispered, lips close to Luke’s temple. 

Luke’s eyes flickered to his hand, held between Michael’s. His voice was barely audible. “Too much.”

Michael couldn’t help wondering what was actually going through his head. Luke’s expression wasn’t very visible, but whatever it was, Michael couldn’t read it. He wanted to ask more, but he appreciated that Luke didn’t press when he gave a similarly unhelpful response, so he held his tongue in turn.

Michael also wanted to ask about Luke’s family. The message he’d read on Luke’s phone came back to him, unbidden, and raised unwanted questions in his head. Did Luke have siblings? Was that who was texting him? And why wasn’t their number saved on his phone? There was something sketchy about Luke’s entire situation, too; he owned nice clothes, a nice laptop, and a guitar, but he was also too broke to pay rent or eat more than two meals a day. Michael wouldn’t be surprised if he came from a well-off family, or a family who used to be well-off. It was a strange curiosity that he ended up in Redfern. He finished highschool, he’d told Michael that, which would be more than enough to get a minimum wage job, but he also might have gone to university - especially likely if his parents were wealthy. But if his parents had money, then why’d he come to Redfern? Had they disowned him? Or maybe Michael was overthinking the entire thing and Luke just… Well, what else could have happened? Maybe Luke was a thief on the run. Maybe he’d escaped from some crime ring in downtown Sydney with no job prospects and condemned himself to a shitty apartment with leftover riches. Maybe he was some vagabond murderer.

Luke shifted his head on Michael’s shoulder with a soft sigh. His hair brushed Michael’s jaw. Okay, not a vagabond murderer - or, if he was, he was very good at hiding that fact.

Michael was seized by unprecedented fondness, realizing too late he should stamp it out before it grew, so he ended up lifting his arm and wrapping it around Luke’s shoulders, jostling him slightly before he settled back. And then he was curled up on the roof with Luke, the stranger he’d met on the street only two or three days ago, sharing body heat and silence in the Sydney night. 

And, with unreasonable amounts of trepidation and dread, he came to an inarguable conclusion, a stalemate of emotions and nerves and instincts. He had feelings for Luke. 

There it was; the feverish denial, crashing over him in a wave of panic. Then the warm hum in his chest, the light-headedness, the acceleration of his heart. Then he was under again. 

He knew the fear and hurt and anger would coalesce later, because he felt it brimming on the edge of his consciousness. For now, he held onto Luke and shoved the war out of his mind, away into the sky. Luke was here and Michael would think later.

  
  


**14**

_ But you feel like the perfect escape now  _

The next morning, Michael woke up in a good mood, with no memory of his dreams. Then he realized he had an uncomfortable situation between his legs. Well, fuck. It had been so long since he'd woken up with a boner that he almost forgot it was a thing that could happen. 

Luckily, it seemed Luke wasn't up yet, even though the winter sky was bright and it was probably past nine or ten. He got off the couch quietly and went into the bathroom, wincing when he turned the shower on, knowing that if Luke wasn't already awake he would probably be now. Well, whatever. He was almost excited to jerk off, which was a strange thought to dwell on, but his sex drive had been very in-the-background for as long as he could remember, so it wasn’t old hat to him yet. Michael rolled his eyes at himself in the mirror before taking his clothes off and getting in the shower. 

Last night, he'd sat up on the roof until probably past midnight with Luke. Most of it they had spent in silence, only broken by trains and cars. It had started to rain lightly before they went back down to Luke's apartment. Looking outside this morning, Michael saw that it was still raining.

He definitely hadn't forgotten what he'd realized yesterday night. Looking back, though, his subconscious had probably figured it out a while ago, so he didn’t feel that different. He had an edge of confidence this morning, and he was relatively stable, so he didn’t spend that much time grasping at the threads of his crumbling stone heart before heaving a sigh and casting the thought away. He knew he wasn't in the same league as Luke - well, they had some things in common, but they weren’t in the same league in the ways that mattered. Michael was going to have to be really fucking careful about getting close to Luke, physically, because he knew himself, and he knew his brain would try to take advantage of Luke’s friendliness. Which was bad because Luke didn't seem to mind touching Michael, if last night on the roof had been any indication.

Why couldn’t life be simple for him? Michael had to live with Luke, who of course had to be insanely fucking attractive, and now that Michael knew how he felt about Luke it was only going to get worse. Fucking hell, his life wasn’t a romance movie. He would ignore how Luke made him feel, because that was the only way he would be able to keep it normal between them. He had to ground himself in reality.

Which was something that became very hard to do when he started touching himself. But Michael never claimed to be a saint. Luke’s scent and voice haunted him, and he came with the breath of Luke’s name poised at the back of his throat. His legs trembled and he turned his face into the shower spray. 

After he’d finished showering and getting dressed, Michael cracked open the bathroom door. Luke was walking around the kitchen, humming to himself, holding boxes of that same goddamn cereal that he had so much of. Luke caught Michael’s eye and flashed him a smile. Michael felt his blood pressure drop and he fought away the blush that threatened to rise in his cheeks. Fucking hell. Fucking hell fuck. Right, so he was never going to think about Luke while he jerked off, ever again. Not as if he’d been able to prevent himself in the moment, but this was definitely the last time he’d do something that stupid.

“Morning,” Michael greeted, injecting his voice with confidence. It seemed to work.

“Hey. Work at two?”

“Yeah, but I have to be there at one thirty. Did you get any more emails from the boss?”

Luke shook his head. “I checked this morning, but no.”

Excellent, so there were no last-minute changes. Michael used to have a few jobs where he was always filling in for people when they called in sick. Which had been way too many times, and with way too little warning.

“D’you sleep well?”

Michael nodded, but angled his face away in case it betrayed anything. His traitor pale skin could hide nothing. “Yeah, pretty good. What’s the time?”

Luke stopped and gave him a tired look. He pointed at the microwave. “It’s ten fifteen, Michael. We have a clock, you know.”

Feeling a shit-eating grin crawl onto his face, Michael shrugged. “Oh, do we?”

Luke’s expression was cynical, but amused. “Yeah, we do. You knew that.”

Michael widened his eyes in feigned innocence, barely containing his grin long enough for Luke to take him seriously. A long-suffering sigh followed. 

\---

“Can’t wait till I get a paycheque,” Michael said, irritably, after all the dishes had been cleaned - out of boredom, not necessity - and lay down on the couch again, taking up all the room. Luke took one look at him sprawled out and went back into the kitchen to get a chair. Something small in Michael’s chest deflated at his willingness to sit away from Michael. 

Luke sat down, stretching his legs out, and Michael watched him out of the corner of his eye. Luke was wearing a white shirt with an orange-red flannel and ripped black jeans. Michael reflected on how insane it was that Luke was single, looking and dressing like that. Or at least he appeared single. A stone of doubt slid into Michael’s gut and he fiddled over the right way to ask without seeming weird. Maybe he’d segue into it another time.

Luke gestured at the TV. “Are you gonna put something on?”

Michael tossed him the remote, and he caught it against his chest. “You can pick. I’ve seen way too much discovery channel these past few days. Anything that’s not a nature documentary is fine.”

“That was a mistake,” Luke muttered, eyebrows raised, and he flipped through channels. Louder, he explained, “All I watch is reality television.”

Michael narrowed his eyes at the screen. “Keeping up with the Kardashians?” 

Luke gave him an apologetic grimace, showing all his teeth. It was deadly cute. Michael’s chest filled with warmth, and he made himself look away, but he couldn’t quite restrain a smile from curling the corners of his mouth. “It’s the only reality TV I get here.”

Michael put his palms over his eyes. “Fuck, alright.” He didn’t like Keeping up with the Kardashians, but he’d watch it if Luke did. Wow, Michael didn’t know he was that easy. 

“If you hate it, you pick, then!”

Michael waved his hand. “No, no. I need some drama.”

He didn’t. He had enough internal drama as it was with Luke here. But with Luke here, and a boring show on, and his hair positioned just right over his face, he could be a total creep and spend the whole time looking at Luke. Which was exactly what Michael was going to do. Christ, maybe if he’d hung out with the normal kids in high school he’d be less weird now. That was a lie. Everyone in high school was a creep.

It had been almost four whole days since Michael had been staying at Luke’s apartment, so that meant he had about ten days left. For the first time, Michael felt the bite of regret at convincing Luke to get a job, but he squashed it down. Luke would probably have enough money after his paycheque to scrape by on his rent for the next month - but just because Luke would be able to pay for next month’s rent by himself didn’t mean he’d kick Michael out.

Who was he kidding. Yeah, he’d kick Michael out. It was a one person apartment; Michael didn’t even have a bed. The most Michael would see of Luke after ten days would be every now and then during work shifts, that is, if he didn’t quit. 

“I can’t believe he was cheating on her like that. And she didn’t even realize until now. Aw, man.” Luke was shaking his head, mouth curved in a disappointed frown, gesturing at someone on-screen. 

Michael had no clue what was happening on the TV, so he didn’t have anything to add. Instead, he asked, “Who’s that?”

Luke glanced at him, fiddling with his fingers almost self-consciously. “Oh, that’s Khloe. She- her boyfriend just got caught with another girl.”

Michael nodded, then accidentally opened his mouth. “Are you da-” he cut himself off, but not soon enough.  _ Are you dating anyone? _ Fucking hell, that was barely a segue. He was so hopeless. Luke peered at him.

Clearing his throat, Michael finished his sentence, resigned to the awkwardness. With blinding amounts of innocent curiosity, and with a benign expression, he asked, “Are you dating anyone?”

Luke’s eyebrows raised, then lowered, knitting together. Grinding his teeth silently, Michael stared unseeingly at the screen. He didn’t want to be faced by Luke’s blue eyes right now. 

“Have you seen anyone else around?” Luke asked, distantly bewildered. “If I was in a relationship, you’d probably know by now.” 

Michael glanced over, and Luke was smiling at him, equal parts abashed, entertained, and self-aware. Michael was both relieved and disappointed that he wasn’t dating anyone; he’d be more motivated to keep his distance if he knew someone else was with Luke. He found himself nodding and rolled his eyes as an afterthought, trying not to meet Luke’s gaze, because Luke was still watching him and it was getting nerve-wracking.

With deliberation, Luke opened his mouth, and asked, “Well, are you?” 

“I- uh.” He hadn’t been expecting Luke to ask in return. “No, of course not.”

Luke shrugged in response. “What do you mean, of course not?”

How was this a question he had to answer? He had to explain that nobody wanted to date a homeless, barely hygienic, scruffy alcoholic? Yeah, he’d been brushing his teeth for the past few days using a spare toothbrush Luke left out for him, and he was having showers, but that was a blip in his long-term regular, and besides that, he had so many other issues. He had a criminal record, for fuck’s sake, a million problems he had no solutions to, and a shitty attitude - there were endless reasons he wouldn’t be in a relationship, and a real one, at that. 

In the last few years - actually, every single one of his relationships hadn’t been real. It was just house-sharing and sex. When he had his first real crush, back in Year 9, there had been no chance for reciprocation, and over time, his romantic feelings towards anyone at all diminished. He only cared enough about things to be angry over them, and no more. 

Michael realized he’d been staring at Luke incredulously for a couple of very long moments in silence, and he cleared his throat. “Oh, um-” he gestured, vaguely- “just, you’d be able to tell if I was.”

Luke’s eyes pierced into Michael’s, stripping back one too many layers of walls. Michael swallowed and blinked away, feeling his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. They both turned their attention reluctantly back to the TV screen.

\---

“Are you warm enough in that?”

Michael stopped halfway through putting his windbreaker on and turned to see Luke in the doorway to his bedroom, holding his guitar, gesturing at Michael. Michael suppressed a snort. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks, mum.”

Luke’s laugh was distressingly lovely, and Michael found himself unintentionally committing it to memory. His gaze wandered over Luke. Barefoot, clad in tight black jeans, white shirt, flannel sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, breathtaking smile and bright blue eyes framed delicately by golden curls; Luke was a vision. And staggeringly hot. Michael felt himself go weak at the knees and knew he was going to start blushing, because Luke was making him go insane, he was losing his fucking mind in here, Christ. 

“Shut up,” Luke said, with easy familiarity, dazzling Michael with his smile. “Have fun at work.”

Feeling like he was going to pass out, heartbeat very audible in his ears, Michael snatched the apartment keys from the kitchen counter and escaped into the hallway with a “I will, mum!” thrown over his shoulder. Luke’s laugh was the last thing he heard before he shut the door and started down the hall. He touched his cheeks with the backs of his hands, trying to feel if they were warm, and fought to keep his lips from curling upwards in a tiny smile.

Michael fucking Clifford.  _ What is wrong with you? _

\---

Michael’s eight hour shift started at exactly two o’clock, after thirty minutes of ‘training’, which was just Ashton showing him around the restaurant. Michael was equipped with a dark grey apron and rubber gloves. There was very little actual training to be had.

“If there aren’t any plates left, grab a broom and tidy up the back. There’s one in the closet back there. Oh, and if you have questions, you can ask any of the kitchen staff.” In a lower tone, Ashton added, “Most of them are really nice, but I don’t know all their names. I’m actually still kind of new.”

Michael nodded. “How long have you worked here?” 

“A month, ish. I dunno, it hasn’t felt like that much time. Anyway, I should get back to work, or Ashley will skin me.” He laughed. “That was a joke. Sorry, I’m not supposed to make violent jokes about Ashley anymore. Um. Good luck.”

Michael stared at Ashton, not sure if he was supposed to laugh or not. Ashton gave him an impish smile and a thumbs up, then walked away. 

Early on, the restaurant was barely busy, and Michael could get away with standing in the back holding a broom while staring off into space. It was kind of hard to concentrate on his work, and he wished it was more distracting. Then he wouldn’t have to be thinking about Luke for hours on end. He probably would anyway, though.

Twenty-three was a bit too old to be crushing on someone this intensely, wasn’t it? He’d known he was bisexual since Year 6 at least, so he wasn’t at all bothered that Luke was a man. He’d been in relationships with guys before. Michael didn’t even want to begin thinking about Luke’s sexuality - there was no point, anyway. Instead, he spent his time mourning himself. He felt unrecognizable; he was a collection of pieces, some of which he understood, and some of which he didn’t. Shards of his heart fell off, mutated, and attached again, filling his chest with a warmth that managed to keep the snake of fear, coiling in his stomach, at bay. 

Hours passed, and Michael watched the sky darken in a tiny window out the back of the restaurant. Plates came to him in massive stacks, and though he tried to keep on top of his work, they piled up faster than he could wash them. Commotion in the kitchen, people talking in the restaurant, and the rumble of cars and motorcycles on the road outside filled his head with pleasant distraction. 

He wondered how Luke was doing. He checked over his shoulder at the analog clock on the wall every now and then. It was almost nine, then almost ten, and soon enough his shift was over. Ashton wasn’t there to bid him goodbye; he’d left sometime around six. Michael put his apron on a hook in the staff room and left La Coppola with a waved goodbye to a harried-looking Ashley, standing at her desk, more than glad to go home- go to Luke’s apartment, that was. 

A cloud of unfounded nostalgia followed him all the way back to The Aspect. It was a nostalgia for a time that had yet to come to pass; a time that he knew wouldn’t last forever. He tucked his thin jacket close around his body and watched a ghost of his breath coalesce in the cold air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part titles in this act:
> 
> Tiffany Blews by Fall Out Boy  
> Jesus of Suburbia by Green Day  
> Empty With You by The Used  
> The Taste of Ink by The Used  
> Favorite Place by All Time Low (ft. the band camino)


	4. ACT IV

**15**

_ Are we just dreaming in the city that never sleeps? _

Luke was waiting for him when Michael unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside. One glance at Luke told Michael everything he needed to know. It wouldn’t take a genius to realize Luke’s withdrawal was hitting him, and hard.

Michael took in Luke’s darting eyes, the restless fidgeting of his hands on the sleeves of his leather jacket, the worried gnawing on his lower lip, and said, “Fuck.” Because of course Luke would hit peak withdrawal when Michael was out at work. Of course Michael wouldn’t be here when he should have - when the promise he’d made started to matter. 

Weakly, Luke asked, “Can I have the key, please?”

“Fuck,” Michael cursed, again. “Fuck, I’m sorry-”

“It’s okay,” Luke said. He started to reach out, palm up as if to receive the key that Michael was holding. His arm was visibly trembling, and as soon as he realized that he dropped it against his side.

Michael didn’t give him the key. He scanned the desk, looking for Luke’s cigarettes, and didn’t see any, so he looked back at Luke. Luke nodded and touched his pocket. Michael took a short breath and opened the door again. “Roof?”

Luke nodded twice and lifted his hand to his mouth, fingers curled over like he was about to start biting his nails. Michael pulled Luke’s hand away from his face and tugged him into the hallway. He couldn’t help the ring of warmth that encircled his heart at the fact he was holding Luke’s hand again - it was tempered heavily by worry and concern, but it was still present, and he fought it down with irritation.

“You could’ve smoked in your room,” Michael offered, rationally, as they walked quickly down the hall towards the stairwell.

Luke flashed his cigarette butt in Michael’s view. Ashy residue covered the end. “I did, a bit.” Slightly hysterically, with a barely-suppressed panicked smile, Luke explained, “But there’s- they have a strict no smoking policy in the complex.”

“Right.” Michael led Luke up the stairs. 

Out on the roof, Michael was struck yet again by the gusts of wind coming off Australia’s east coast waters. He let the door close behind Luke and let go of his hand reluctantly. Then he leaned back against the door while Luke lit up. 

Michael’s hands were cold, tucked in his jacket pockets, and his hair fell into his eyes but he didn’t push it away. He listened to the rush of wind, the whistle of trains, the squeal of brakes, and the scrape-flick of a lighter. He felt all kinds of fucked up in ways he hadn’t ever felt before. Luke was a shadow in the city lights; Michael wanted to reach out and touch him to make sure Luke knew he was still there.

“You good?” Michael asked. He hoped Luke could hear him.

Luke turned around, his cigarette a burning star between his fingers. He let out a sigh. The smoke dissipated in half a second.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Luke said. “I probably would’ve been fine.”

Michael eyed him. “You were shaking.”

Luke took another drag and put his hand to his face, pinching high on the bridge of his nose like he was tired. He started to walk over to the edge of the roof, and Michael followed him. Some form of resolve seemed to break in Luke, and he said, voice edged with desperation, “I can’t fucking do it, Michael.”

Luke sunk onto the ground and leaned back against the ledge. Michael did the same. Frustratedly, Luke continued, saying, “I should have known, because I tried before, did I tell you that? I want to quit. I tried, and I couldn’t do it.”

“You can,” Michael countered. “You’ve made it almost two whole days? That’s progress. And next time it’ll be easier to hold off.”

Luke groaned and put his face in his hands. “No. I- I can’t, I really can’t, trust me on this.”

“I don’t,” Michael said, stubbornly. “Last time, did you try to quit by yourself?”

“Yeah.” Luke stuck his cigarette in his mouth crossly. Michael redirected his gaze from Luke’s lips to his eyes. 

“Well, me too. And look at me now, I’m quitting with you. Five days clean.”

“I haven’t done anything to help you with that. It’s- that’s all you, Michael.”

Michael stared at him. Luke’s presence alone was good enough motivation for Michael to not drink. Luke was the only thing he could point to as a reason he had stayed sober for five whole days. There were some other reasons to stay clean, of course, but none of them had been strong enough to work before.

“Uh.” Michael huffed a short laugh. “Uh, no, Luke. Not at all.”

“It’s true,” Luke said doggedly. “It’s true. I haven’t done anything.”

“You know why I followed you up here the first time?”

Luke looked at him in silence.

“I was going to break,” Michael confessed. He traced the outer seam of his jeans with his thumbnail. “That night was, uh, probably the worst for me. But I made it.”

“I don’t know how I helped you,” Luke said, confused. “I didn’t-“

“Believe me.” Michael was sure as fuck not going to explain - he didn’t want to tell Luke there was a bottle under the sink, and he would die before admitting that he’d held onto Luke’s name like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. He definitely wasn’t going to let Luke read into that. 

Luke was quiet. His hair lifted in the wind, and he ran his fingers through it, untangling the wind-sewn knots with force. He looked off into nothing. Aggressively, he took a long drag, the corners of his mouth thin and angry - he was still upset, clearly. Michael didn’t know what else to tell him. Luke wasn’t quite like anyone he’d encountered in his life. Thinking back, he tried to remember - was there anything he knew about Luke that would help? Last night, Luke had leaned on his shoulder. Maybe Luke found some comfort in that. Regardless of how emotionally conflicting it had been for Michael.

Michael reached out to Luke and shifted closer. Luke seemed to pick up on what Michael was trying to do and leaned forward, giving Michael space to put an arm around his shoulders. Michael pulled Luke towards him, and Luke fell easily against Michael’s shoulder again, as if they hadn’t moved from this spot since last night.

“Take these,” Luke mumbled, turning his forehead into Michael’s shoulder. His hand dug in his jacket pocket for a moment, then reappeared with his last two cigarettes. He held them out for Michael. Michael took them.

In a whisper, with his eyes closed, Luke said, “Thank you.”

_ Thank you.  _ Michael felt something indescribable flare in his chest. He was supposed to be the one thanking Luke; thanking him for giving Michael the chance to stay in his apartment, giving him food, talking to him, letting Michael use his phone, fuck, even setting him up financially so he’d be able to get a job. What had Michael done? What had Michael ever done for Luke?

Silence passed, heartbeat after heartbeat, Michael barely feeling the bite of cold air around him. Luke was pressed close against his side. That was all that mattered. The smell of damp tobacco and nicotine ghosted past Michael’s nose, then turned to salt and gasoline and concrete. Luke breathed in and out beside him. His hand on the shoulder of Luke’s leather jacket was wound tight; it would take more than a shrug to pull free, but Luke didn’t seem to mind. Michael thought about the hint of Luke’s cologne lingering at the edge of his senses. All he wanted to do was sit here, forever.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about?” Luke’s voice was soft, and Michael could almost feel his lips move against Michael’s jacket. His cigarette was away from his face, the butt burning out between his fingers, resting on his thigh.

_ I don’t fucking know, mate.  _ What was Luke expecting him to say? Why’d he keep asking, anyway? Michael hummed in the back of his throat, noncommittal, but acknowledging.

“Come on,” Luke pressed. Even quieter, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted Michael to hear or not, he said, “I don’t wanna think about me.”

Oh. Michael wracked his brain, trying to find something he could distract Luke with. But god was it hard when Luke was right here - whenever Michael breathed he could smell him.

“…You start work tomorrow.”

“We have the same shift, right?” Luke said.

“Yeah.”

“How was it today?”

Michael sighed and desperately restrained himself from leaning his cheek against the side of Luke’s head, letting his face sink into those golden curls.  _ I was thinking about you. Fuck.  _ It wasn’t even funny anymore; Michael was so, so gone.

“It was okay,” he said, offhand. “Honestly, dishwashing is boring as hell. And you wouldn’t believe how gross it can get. But at least, you know, I don’t have to talk to people.”

Luke laughed softly. Michael’s heart seized. “But I’ll have to. As a waiter.”

Michael absently let his fingers trace swirls on the upper arm of Luke’s jacket. “Yeah, true. At least you look the part, though.”

“What?” Luke’s voice carried a hint of incredulity. He stiffened like he was going to pull away from Michael and look at him, but didn’t, and then relaxed again. 

“It’s cause you’re- like- you- shave, or whatever.” That was what Michael had been implying, initially, as well as the unsaid fact that Luke was insanely hot and Michael, well, wasn’t, but it was true Luke looked way less shaggy and that he appeared way more put-together than Michael did.

Luke clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Do you want to shave? I can get you a razor.” 

“I don’t know.” Yeah, it was probably a good idea, but he wasn’t sure if he’d like the way his face looked clean-shaven. He brushed his knuckles against his scruff, briefly. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Luke switched his cigarette to his left hand. The burning star on the end was etched into Michael’s retinas. 

Luke lifted his other hand towards an approximation of Michael’s face, and Michael froze. He didn’t have long to wonder what Luke was doing, because Luke’s hand immediately found his chin and then his cold fingers were touching Michael’s jaw.

“I can’t see you that well in the dark,” Luke offered by way of explanation. His fingers were soft against Michael’s skin. He hummed. “Yeah, you probably need to shave.”

Michael regained his ability to breathe, and then it was taken away from him again, because Luke’s fingers had brushed over his lips. Luke must have felt the sharp intake of air - he moved his hand away, quickly, and huffed a short, awkward laugh. Barely audible, he said, “Sorry,” into the side of Michael’s shoulder. Michael’s stupid traitor heart raced in his chest and he pinched his eyes shut, tight. He pretended he didn’t hear Luke. Shit, shit.

Nerves in his lips still tingling, Michael asked, “How’s your cigarette? You feeling better?”

He felt Luke sigh beside him and almost regretted asking. Luke didn’t want to think about himself. Michael cared, though, he cared enough to want to know. Despite how bewilderingly unfamiliar the concept was to him.

Luke took another drag, then stubbed the butt out on the rooftop tar beside him. “Yeah, I guess.” He sounded exhausted, and it made Michael pull him infinitesimally closer.

Michael didn’t know how much time was passing. He didn’t want to go back to the apartment, and he assumed Luke didn’t either, because his cigarette had burned out long ago and he was still leaning heavily on Michael’s shoulder. Only the rise and fall of Luke’s chest and the warmth emanating from his body reminded Michael he was still there. Not as if he’d forget.

Fuck, what if Luke had fallen asleep on him? He didn’t want to wake him up, but he knew he was completely incapable of the other option: carrying him down the access stairwell and back to the apartment. Well, then. Michael would have to wake him up sometime, and soon, if he really was asleep.

“Hey,” Michael whispered. He waited.

It turned out Luke wasn’t asleep. It was late, though, so they went down to the apartment anyway.

\---

It was a slow morning on Tuesday. Michael woke up sometime around nine, and Luke came back from wherever he’d gone off to - probably a grocery store, judging by the litre jug of milk he was carrying - half an hour later. He’d left a note on the kitchen counter saying _ I’m out, I’ll be back before ten, _ which Michael had held and stared at for too long before putting it back down. Luke’s handwriting was nice. It was only a messy scrawl, but looking at it gave Michael a weird - but good - twang in his heart. 

It was fucked up to realize he was getting serotonin from a piece of paper, but at least it counteracted the usual hazy funk that came with withdrawal. If Michael’s brain hadn’t been sucking dopamine and serotonin out of every interaction he had with Luke, he didn’t think he’d have gotten this far into withdrawal without breaking. That was another thing he could thank Luke for.

He hadn’t forgotten the bottle he’d stashed away under the sink. It itched at the back of his mind, poking at the holes in his stream of consciousness, worming its way into every negative thought that he tried so hard to keep at bay. Something dark lived in the back of his head; it had been there for years and he knew it would never go away entirely. Pieces of his heart and his mind were chipping off and reforming. The call of the void was welded into him. 

Stony resolve followed Michael through the morning. Luke gave Michael reign over his closet, telling him to “Get clothes whenever, it’s fine, as long as you put them in the laundry afterwards”. Michael was grateful, and he smiled at all the right times, but his head was elsewhere. He was thinking about his small room and cot in the rehabilitation centre on Cleveland Street, where he’d been sleeping just last week. He was thinking about the white paint he’d picked off the wall behind the plastic bedposts - the light brown tile floor, patterned with small swirls that were now emblazoned in his mind’s eye. The grime in the corners of the bathroom stalls that nobody bothered to clean, nor had the money to, and the spider webs caught in the light fixtures in the canteen. He was caught up in memories.

Luke gave him a razor, and Michael locked himself in the bathroom to shave. His face afterwards looked young, closer to the twenty-three that he was and farther from the thirty he felt like. Tiredness clung to him like a fog. Luke’s presence seemed to cut through it, when he was around, but in the bathroom by himself, Michael was empty. 

Thinking about Luke made Michael excited to keep moving, living, waking up, because he wanted to feel it again: the flutter of emotions that came with being around Luke. They had existed before Michael admitted to himself that he had feelings for Luke and they hadn’t become any weaker since. The fact he knew small things about Luke now made them even stronger; he knew Luke liked to rest his head on Michael’s shoulder, he knew how Luke’s hair smelled, how his hands felt, how his voice sounded when he was tired. The feelings took the form of a burning in his chest - heart racing, breath catching, hyperawareness - and it was breaking Michael apart, piece by piece.

Miserably, he eyed himself in the mirror. He hadn’t dared consider Luke would be interested in him - he hadn’t even allowed himself to imagine Luke was anything but heterosexual. Despite the dull, sardonic voice in his head that was telling him he was a fucking idiot, Michael ran his hands through his hair to style it better. He washed his face with water and tried to look as presentable as possible.

He left the bathroom. Luke was standing in the kitchen, and when he saw Michael, he smiled and pointed at the microwave. “Looks good. Should we head down now?”

Looks good, Luke had said. Michael shoved down the bubble that rose in his chest. Luke was wearing black jeans and a zipped-up black coat. His hair looked great - like, he must have put some product in it and Michael somehow didn’t notice before now.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

  
  


**16**

_Promise me you’ll never let me leave_

On the sidewalk outside La Coppola, Luke froze in his tracks. Michael stopped as well and shot Luke a questioning glance. Luke looked - well, there was only one word for it. Panicked.

“What is it?” Michael prompted. He sidled closer to Luke to make room for pedestrians on the sidewalk. 

“Nothing,” Luke whispered. Michael watched as Luke fixed up his expression, smoothing a weak smile over worried lips, brows slowly unknitting themselves. Luke’s darting eyes, however, gave his panic away completely, and Michael felt turmoil twist up his insides.

“What’s wrong?” Michael said urgently under his breath. 

Luke seemed surprised at Michael’s obvious concern, and blinked a few times at him before beginning, slowly. “It’s- I’m- it’s actually…”

Time was passing, and Michael felt a grip of fear clench his heart at the prospect of getting fired for being late to a shift. It was something that hadn’t used to bother him, but now he cared about money, so it mattered. A lot. 

Michael hesitated, biting back his chagrin, and asked, “What time is-”

“Fuck, don’t remind me,” Luke cut him off, sounding distressed. Michael stared at him. Luke put his hands over his face and took a long breath.

“Luke,” Michael persisted. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s literally nothing,” Luke persisted in turn. He kept his hands over his face, so his voice was muffled when he finally started explaining. “I don’t like- right. Michael. I don’t like talking to people, okay? Like, strangers. Like, meeting people. I get stupid fucking anxiety over it all. It’s not even- I’m just kind of freaking out right now, I don’t know why.”

Oh fuck, alright. Michael didn’t know what to do. He was totally useless at this. Christ.

“Are you having a panic att-”

“I don’t know!”

“Luke. Everything’s gonna be alright, okay?”

“I have a job at a restaurant,” Luke gritted out. “As a waiter. As a waiter. All those people… Fucking hell, why did I ever agree to this. It’s not gonna be alright, I swear to fucking god, it won’t be.”

Michael gave himself a split second to reflect on how he met Luke. Yeah, he’d been relatively shy, Michael supposed. And on Sunday when he was interviewed by Ashley and Michael left the room - he remembered that panicked look Luke shot him.

Michael became suddenly aware they were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking the path of pedestrians, so he took Luke’s arm and led him to the concrete wall between La Coppola and the next shop over. The sky today was dim and carried the same hint of rain that it had for the past few days. Michael could tell it was going to rain again tonight. Water from last night’s early-morning showers remained on the street in cold grey puddles, and the chill from the air clung to the wall Michael was now standing against. 

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m not having a panic attack,” Luke insisted. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Michael said. “Right, I believe you.” He didn’t believe Luke, but Luke’s determination might calm him down. As he watched Luke sigh shakily and put himself together, a bad feeling clawed into Michael’s heart and dug in like a parasite. He’d convinced Luke to get this job. Not like he’d known Luke was going to have a panic attack about it, but the fact was still true that it had been Michael’s fault.

Without thinking too hard, Michael quietly said, “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Luke said immediately. He seemed to pick up on what Michael meant. He opened his mouth like he was going to continue, but replaced it with a deep breath instead. A few moments later, he muttered, “Sorry.”

Too many apologies were occurring, and Michael was getting annoyed. It wasn’t Luke’s fault he’d had a panic attack. He didn’t need to apologize. Fucking hell. 

Some form of impatience or frustration must have accidentally shown on Michael’s face, because Luke’s expression closed down, becoming a blank wall. Michael immediately tried to rework his mouth into neutrality, or even contentedness, but it was too late. Luke’s previously wide, worried eyes were now stone-dull.

Desperately, Michael started, “No-”

“Let’s not be late. Come on.” Luke’s voice was measured, reasonable. He turned away from Michael to go towards the restaurant door. 

Fuck, Michael thought, following him. Luke’s walls had been torn down in front of Michael, and Michael had gotten so caught up in his stupid inability to deal with apologies, and he’d made Luke think- well, think that Michael was angry at him, or something, and now he’d built the walls right back up again and Michael was shut out.

\---

In the staff room, Michael took a grey apron from a hook and was tying it behind his back when he saw Luke take his jacket off. Under it, he was wearing a black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top, showing off his collarbones - of fucking course, because why would Michael ever deserve to live in peace? 

Michael’s shift started at two. Luke would be summoned by Ashley to do some basic training before he could get started, so he idled for a few minutes while Michael got prepared. They didn’t speak for about a minute and Michael was so done with silence.

He tried not to stare directly at Luke, for fear of not being able to look away. “Luke,” he started, drawing Luke’s attention from the black floor of the staff room. 

“Yeah?”

Michael offered a hesitant, tight-lipped smile. Did he have to say sorry? Was Luke angry at him? Wow, Michael needed to get out of his own head, maybe get a fucking drink, or something. 

“I… good luck,” Michael said. No, that wouldn’t do; he didn’t want to spend his entire shift wishing he’d said something else.

“Yeah, you too,” Luke replied, nodding. 

“Luke,” Michael sighed. He wasn’t looking at Luke at all now - watching the dark walls felt like a far safer idea.

Luke waved his hand in a  _ forget about it  _ gesture. Fuck, he was misunderstanding. He shrugged, appearing blindingly offhand, panic from earlier seeming forgotten. “I freaked out for, like, no reason. So I’m sorry abou-”

“Stop,” Michael interrupted. “Stop apologizing. Please.”

Luke stared at him. Michael finally met his gaze.

Distantly uncomfortable, Michael fidgeted with his hands. He didn’t like oversharing, and this felt like it. “You don’t have to. Say sorry, I mean. For anything that’s not your fault. I don’t like apologies, if that makes any sense, it’s just so much easier to-” he cut himself off. Luke didn’t need to hear about his weird psychological issues. He felt like he needed to finish, though, so he added, “to forget about it, you know?”

Luke’s eyes were wide, and his stance had shifted to something more familiar, more relaxed. “Wait. So you’re not- like-”

Michael blinked at him. “What?”

“Angry?” Luke offered, with the shadow of a wry smile.

“No, why would I?” It hadn’t meant to come out accusatory - Michael genuinely wanted to know. He tried to soften it with a sympathetic smile. It wasn’t that hard to smile when he was looking at Luke, especially now, when he was looking so damn pretty with his hair and his neck and- and everything, fucking hell.

Luke shrugged. “I don’t know.” He turned away before Michael could get a read on his expression. He still looked relaxed, though, and he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. As Michael watched, he sighed involuntarily, the chill of regret sweeping through his body - he couldn’t shake the guilt over convincing Luke to take this job. It would be worth it in the end, though, probably. If that was any reassurance.

He studied Luke out of the corner of his eye under the guise of washing his hands. The staff room door was always open - the room itself was behind the kitchen, which prevented guests from walking in uninvited. This meant, however, he could accidentally lock eyes with his boss, Ashley, as she was winding her way through the kitchen towards him. Hastily, he finished washing his hands, checked the time, and hovered by the sink, mentally at war with himself over what he should say to Luke. Wish him good luck again? Ask him if he was okay? 

“Hey, guys.” Too late; Ashley had arrived in the doorway. She nodded at Michael in greeting and pointed at Luke. “Ready for training?”

Michael and Luke glanced at each other at the same time and looked away. Michael saw Luke smile timidly at Ashley in his peripheral vision and nod. “Yeah.”

This was fine, Michael convinced himself. Actually, what the fuck, this wasn’t really even his problem, it was Luke’s problem, so why was he getting all worked up over it? Michael’s shift would be fine, and normal, and Luke would have to deal with whatever it was he was dealing with by himself. Michael had no reason to be upset. 

But he did, Michael reminded himself, bleakly. Because he fucking cared. He fucking cared about the one person who’d shown him kindness in this harsh fucking world.

Luke was following Ashley out of the room. He turned around at the last second, allowing Michael to mouth a quick “good luck”. Luke’s tiny smile in response made Michael’s heart twist, and then he was gone and Michael had to start his shift.

\---

“Who’s your friend?”

Ashton was digging around in the cupboards next to Michael’s legs. Michael was making an effort not to spill water on Ashton’s head while he rinsed out a massive pot. This meant he also hadn’t paid enough attention to Ashton’s words.

“What?”

“Your friend. Y’know. That tall blond guy you came in with.”

“Oh,” Michael said, unhelpfully. “That’s Luke.”

Ashton started pouring something blue into an empty spray bottle, kneeling on the floor to measure how much was going in. Michael leaned over him to reach for a stack of tomato-sauce covered bowls. He heard Ashton mutter something.

“What?”

Ashton laughed. “Nothing. Ah. Carry on.”

Michael’s attention was taken entirely, and he stopped working, narrowing his eyes at Ashton, who was making a grand show of measuring out the perfect combination of blue liquid and some fluffy white powder. “No, what was it?”

“Workplace-inappropriate joke,” Ashton said, caving easily, but having the grace to look a little sheepish, “about how business will be better now that… well. He’s hot, have you noticed?” 

Michael felt a hot iron poke his heart. Yeah, he’d noticed. It had been difficult to notice anything else for the past while. Consciously, he turned his face back to the sink, hoping Ashton wouldn’t notice the heat rising to his cheeks. He cleared his throat as subtly as possible. Not subtle enough. He felt Ashton’s eyes on him. When Michael glanced back down at him, a sly grin was gracing the corner of Ashton’s lips. Okay, Michael had made a mistake - Ashton obviously thought there was something between them. And there wasn’t. Well, there was, for Michael at least, but there wasn’t really- 

“Oh, alright,” Ashton said, knowingly. “Gotta go. Nice talking to you.”

He was gone, and Michael was left alone to toil with his dishes and his thoughts.

\---

Luke showed up a few times during Michael’s shift to dump plates on the counter. Every time Michael saw him approaching his heart sped up. Like he was fucking fourteen, or something. It was almost embarrassing.

Every time Luke gave him a stack he said “sorry” under his breath and shot Michael a sympathetic smile. Every time, Michael searched Luke’s face for an indication of his mood, and he came up with nothing concrete; only bits and pieces of stress, tiredness, and relief that diminished quickly over the short span of time that he was around Michael. It was his first day, and Luke was already out serving people - so it was a trial by fire, then. Well, Ashley did say they were understaffed.

Hours passed, and it was rush hour, then the evening crowd, which tapered off slowly. La Coppola wouldn’t close until an hour after Michael’s shift was over, but it would be significantly less busy then. Tonight, Luke had the same shift as Michael.

As the evening progressed, minutes ticking closer to ten o’clock, the itch in Michael’s veins started bothering him again. He felt dull and jittery, sick of feeling too much and bored of not doing enough. He caught his reflection sometimes in a pan and had to turn it away from himself so he didn’t get frustrated staring at his stupid half-bleached hair, or his clean-shaven face, or his lifeless eyes. He craved the sharp smell of smoke and gasoline in a house full of crackheads and rejects and nobodies. He craved the feeling of not caring about anything or anyone. He needed his fix of adrenaline, and there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to get it soon. 

Which was bad, because the only thing around that made him feel alive right now was Luke. And Luke was someone he really could not afford to do something stupid with. Michael bit his tongue and tried to make himself zone out. At this point, he couldn’t afford to think, either.

It was ten o’clock, so Michael went back to the staff room. He took his apron and gloves off and waited by the door for Luke to finish his shift.

He didn’t have to wait long, because Luke appeared in the doorway moments later, running a tired hand through his beautiful goddamn hair to push it up off his forehead. When he saw Michael, his face relaxed minutely. He was close enough for Michael to pick out the exact shade of blue of his eyes. Which was definitely not a good thing, because when it was combined with the distinct line of his jaw and the hollow at the base of his throat, all Michael could think about doing was kissing Luke’s neck. And fuck, that was so not helpful, especially when he was also worried about Luke’s stress levels after working eight hours in a job he’d had a panic attack thinking about. 

“Hey,” Michael began.

Luke stared at him for a second. “Hey.”

“Are you good?”

Luke gave him a half-hearted smile. “Well. I’ll live.”

His voice sounded fake, so Michael narrowed his eyes at him until he sighed and leaned against the doorframe. Luke scratched the back of his neck and let his shoulders slump. Michael felt a short rush of gratification that he was allowed to see this part of Luke, followed by a twinge of guilt.

“Fuck,” Luke groaned. Michael felt his ears perk up at that, and cursed himself out in his head. He focused instead on the fact Luke was pressing the back of his hand to his forehead as if he was nursing a headache. “Fuck. Take me home, Michael.”

And Michael would have committed a lot of crimes to hear those words in a different context, but right now he was more than happy to hear them at all. 

\---

They didn’t talk much, or at all, really, on the way back to The Aspect. The night was cold, and Luke was wearing his coat again, but all Michael had on over a t-shirt was his windbreaker, so he was feeling the bite of winter air. It never actually snowed in Sydney - it was still too many degrees over zero - but if it was going to, Michael would have picked now as a good time. 

Shadows from the streetlights followed Luke and Michael. Michael’s hands were curled up in his jeans pockets to keep warm, but it wasn’t working. A block away from the apartment complex, Michael’s lack of forethought kicked in, and he sidled closer to Luke. He was going to hold Luke’s hand tonight regardless of the consequences. As soon as he touched Luke’s wrist with his fingers, Luke figured out exactly what he was trying to do, and took his hand out of his pocket, allowing Michael to lace their fingers together. 

Then Luke stopped walking, forcing Michael to do the same. Michael turned to him in surprise, but didn’t get far - Luke pulled him into an unexpected hug. In the middle of the sidewalk at quarter past ten on a Tuesday night.

“Luke?” Michael asked, slightly muffled against Luke’s shoulder. Luke was taller than him, after all, even if only by an inch or two. And, fuck, was this good. He wrapped his arms around Luke in turn. The fact they weren’t holding hands anymore was made up for when Michael could feel the muscles in Luke’s back under his fingertips - though he was trying not to think in that direction. He could smell Luke again, which was something that struck him like getting hit by a bike. Luke’s jaw was against Michael’s cheek and that wasn’t even what he was focusing on, because it had been so, so fucking long since anyone had hugged him like they’d meant it, and he was kind of totally going insane in the back of his head right now.

“Hm?” Luke acknowledged him, but didn’t move at all.

“Are…” Michael didn’t know what to say, or ask, or do. He didn’t want Luke to let go; not when he was surrounded by Luke’s scent and warmth, when he could feel Luke’s phone in the pocket of his jeans against his hip, when Luke had the side of his face pressed against Michael’s head and his chin resting on Michael’s shoulder, when somehow Michael could tell Luke’s eyes were closed because that’s just how he was acting - sleepy, a tiny bit off-balance, leaning his weight on Michael’s frame.

Michael traced a circle on Luke’s back before he could catch himself. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Are you okay?” 

In a whisper, close against Michael’s ear, Luke said, “Yeah.” Then Luke was disentangling himself, and Michael had to let go as well, and he felt the cold air fill the space between them again instantly. Michael let out a long breath and shook his head to clear it. It didn’t work, and his head was still spinning when Luke took his hand again and they walked the rest of the way back to The Aspect.

Just guys being friends, Michael thought, dimly. Fuck. The fact Luke acted like this with friends was the best worst thing that could happen - it made Michael’s heart race in the perfect mix of happiness and adrenaline and, well, some anxiety, but it also fooled him into thinking there was something a little more between him and Luke. Michael hadn’t had friends since Year 7, so he had no fucking clue how to read their interactions, but he was going off the assumption that Luke was straight. So it was nothing. 

That night, Luke went up to the roof again, and Michael followed him again. Both of them were tired as hell, so they didn’t stay long. Michael sat on the edge of the roof and kicked his feet over the open air. Luke held his hand, as if causing mental strife to Michael was one of his hobbies.

Michael fell asleep before midnight with the memory of Luke’s body against his, trying to forget Luke was in bed in the other room.

  
  


**17**

_I lost my way in your city lights_

Days passed for Michael in a strange haze. For the rest of the week, he and Luke fell into a regular schedule: they’d wake up in the morning, late, because they’d been up late the night before, eat some combination of breakfast and lunch, and then either go to work or hang around the apartment. Luke’s shifts overlapped Michael’s, but not exactly, so sometimes they’d go to work together only to leave hours apart. The only thing that continued to motivate Michael to do any work at all was his ever-nearing first paycheque.

During the times Michael was in Luke’s apartment alone, he had taken to playing Luke’s guitar. He didn’t really have permission - curiosity had brought him into Luke’s room on Wednesday afternoon, and while he held back from tossing Luke’s room for evidence of Luke’s hidden past, he couldn’t stop himself from picking up the telecaster. He wasn’t able to search up tutorials or chords online, but he remembered some things from when he was in high school, and that was good enough. At least it distracted his mind for a while.

Luke ended up keeping the job, despite how conflicted he seemed about it. Maybe the first shift was like breaking through a hard shell, and it became easier to keep going afterwards. Michael didn’t know. 

Every night, he and Luke would go up to the roof together. It had become some form of unspoken agreement. Michael carried Luke’s remaining cigarettes; two, then one, around in his pocket. He carried the knowledge of the bottle under the sink in the back of his mind like a curse. They were both staying clean, but it came at the price of sanity. Michael caught himself sinking into depressed funks and zoning out for hours on end. Sometimes he’d finish a shift and not remember anything of note that happened during it - sometimes he’d turn the TV on and let his eyes glaze over, jolting back into reality when he heard the apartment door click open. He could tell Luke was dealing, too. Wednesday night was the worst for him. He’d come back to the apartment at eleven after his shift with shaking hands and wide, darting eyes, and Michael had to light his cigarette for him when they were on the roof. That night, Luke had sat down out of Michael’s reach and smoked angrily until the anger was washed away by nothingness, and then he’d watched the sky blankly, only moving when Michael suggested they go back down.

Sometimes Michael sat on the edge of the roof and watched the city. The buzz he got from being so close to a deadly fall was strangely addicting. The buzz he got from touching Luke and being near him was also turning into a strange dependency. It wasn’t good; he knew that. He couldn’t replace an addiction with another addiction. 

He couldn’t tell if it was an addiction or not. Sometimes, all he wanted to do was to sit next to Luke and feel like he belonged somewhere. Like he was safe, or something. Like he didn’t have to look out for himself all the time. It made him feel like the world wasn’t all shit. 

Luke on the roof was Luke when he was most vulnerable, Michael quickly discovered. Luke during work shifts was a well-made persona that was friendly and helpful, albeit tired - but Luke at nights, alone with only Michael, was moody and fidgety and so distressingly fragile that Michael wanted to hold him, because when Luke was swearing at himself in a low voice with his hands over his face, what else could he do? When Luke was angry and hopeless and all those things Michael was so used to feeling, what else was there to do? But Luke was unpredictable, too. Most of the time he would let Michael touch him, and lean on him, but like all things that were changing, he too was breaking into pieces of shattered glass, and sometimes Michael was afraid of getting cut. Sometimes Michael was too afraid of cutting in return, because he was fucked up, too - he was afraid of being too harsh, too pushy, if Luke needed more space than Michael was giving him. He was afraid of taking out his own frustration and his own issues on Luke. 

There was careful balance between them, forged from shared experience and newfound friendship. Michael watched Luke in the way he wanted to from afar; when he was close, he tried to be what Luke needed, which seemed to be a friend, or a source of comfort, which was fine, because it was also what Michael needed sometimes. From afar, though, he couldn’t stop himself from admiring Luke. It was really fucking inconvenient that MIchael had managed to develop feelings for him. Especially now that his sex drive was coming back. Terribly, terribly inconvenient.

So, with his feelings for Luke at the forefront of his mind, Michael tried to be cautious. He couldn’t get too close, but god did it feel like he was toeing the line sometimes. Fires started in his chest whenever he touched Luke, held his hand, anything - and there was the dependence, because he was starting to depend on the solidness of Luke’s body being there when he needed it. When he put his arms around Luke he knew Luke was real. When he held Luke’s hand, he felt the thin bones in his fingers and wrist and he knew Luke was real. When things were hazy and Michael wasn’t sure whether or not he was awake, at least he knew one thing for certain. 

Sometimes, it felt like his heart was becoming singed with smoke. Other times, the fire was what kept him alive. Most times, he gritted his teeth and fell through day after day, holding onto his tenacious progress, not knowing what the next day would bring but hoping he’d be able to make it until the one after. And the one after that. And that Luke would, too. 

Over the next few nights, Luke told Michael more about his past. Michael learned that Luke had two older brothers, both of which far more successful than Luke. He was living on his own in an attempt to prove that he could - to them, or to his family, Michael supposed. Mentions of Luke’s family reminded Michael of the text message he’d read on Luke’s phone.  _ Mum says she misses you. _ He figured it was one of Luke’s brothers, but he couldn’t determine anything else. Based on how Luke spoke about his family - sharp, with the edge of resentment seeping into his words - Michael didn’t think the text message had been all that nice to receive. He didn’t know. He couldn’t ask, because then Luke would ask him questions too, and he’d feel obliged to answer. But he didn’t want to answer. He was just fine living in the moment; he didn’t want to think about the future or the past. 

The problem was, he sort of did want to answer. He wanted a sense of permanence, here with Luke in Redfern, because the future looked bad and he needed to put it off. 

The world wasn’t all shit. Michael knew that. If it wasn’t for his depressive mood swings and the ever-alluring call of the void, living in an apartment with a friend would be a hell of a time. In loose terms. Luke was fun to be around, if he wasn’t in a strange grey haze of self-pity and dread, but even when he was, Michael didn’t mind. Being around Luke and living in his apartment was a really fucking nice thing that had happened to Michael. It was definitely one of the best things that had happened in his shit life. Which was why he hated thinking about it ending.

As things went, Luke and Michael had their share of hard times, but they also had good times. Mornings were always easier. They’d talk, watch TV, and eat together - when Luke laughed in the mornings, he laughed loud, like he meant it. When Luke was sitting next to Michael on the couch, watching  _ Keeping Up with the Kardashians _ with meticulous attention to detail, his hair still messy from sleep, he looked content enough. Even if he was busy picking at his nails under the sleeves of his hoodie. They were bitten to the quick - it was a habit he’d picked up with feverish dedication when he stopped smoking. Michael was less alive in the morning. It took him a while to wake up. Being around Luke, though, lifted his spirits.

The one detail about his and Luke’s routine that Michael didn’t understand was how they would only get close at night, when reality felt farther away. In the day, they were just friends - Michael would tap Luke’s arm without thinking about it, if he had to get past him, they shared ironic fist bumps, and they walked beside each other, near enough for their hands to brush - but no more than that. It was frustrating. There were invisible boundaries that Michael didn’t want to be the first to push, because he didn’t want to make Luke think- he didn’t want Luke to find out- Michael really did not want Luke to find out he had feelings for him. So, fuck no, he wasn’t going to grab Luke’s hand in broad daylight and risk getting discovered. It was hard enough trying to hide the blush on his face when Luke grinned at him, or laughed, or tossed his head in that really fucking attractive way that shook his hair out of his face. It was hard enough working at the same restaurant as Luke when Luke wore black button-down shirts as part of his uniform. He couldn’t go any farther in the day. At night, however, and on the roof especially, the lines were blurred. Michael gave into his impulses. The tamer ones, that was. Maybe it was the dark and the fear of the unknown that made them both crave contact. Or maybe they were both touch-starved. Michael knew he was - or Luke-starved, he couldn’t tell the difference. Either way, they ended up sprawled on the roof together most nights, bodies close, sharing heat. Michael was starting to know Luke’s hands better than he knew his own.

And still, though Michael searched for an indication they were becoming more than friendly, he couldn’t isolate it. He contented himself to wait out his feelings. Maybe they’d disappear, and he would be able to live his life without Luke on his mind all the time. Maybe he’d be able to pay attention to things in the room and not spend his time watching Luke out of the corner of his eye. The thought didn’t make him happy.

Whenever Michael had time to think, he thought too much. He replayed conversations he’d had with people in the past, conversations he wanted to have in the future - he thought about the rehab clinic, his parent’s house, his highschool. He thought about the people he used to talk to; acquaintances, strangers, and his childhood best friend, Calum, who he hadn’t seen in ten years. He wondered where Calum was at now. He thought about work, about the chefs he was starting to recognize and know the names of in the kitchen, and Ashton, who would sometimes come by to talk during shifts. He thought about Luke and Luke’s long fucking legs and his pretty fucking eyelashes; Luke, unbelieveably sexy in a leather jacket and tight jeans; Luke, with his blue, blue eyes and perfect smile and his beautiful voice that Michael sometimes heard when Luke was in his bedroom playing guitar, and Michael was still working up the courage to ask if he could hear a song. He thought about himself, too. He was trying to figure out who he was. The fact that he didn’t recognize parts of himself didn’t bother him as much as it used to, which was a relief, but also a concern. It was confusing and- yeah, this was why thinking too much was a problem. Michael kept going around in circles.

On Thursday, Michael worked another eight hour shift. On Friday, Luke ran out of cigarettes. On Saturday, Michael re-taught himself how to play Helena by the Misfits, and on Sunday, someone knocked on Luke's apartment door.

  
  


**18**

_If home is where the heart is then we’re all just fucked_

Michael was sitting on the couch, picking at his jaw, when it happened. He was debating whether or not he was going to ask Luke officially if he could play Luke’s guitar, while becoming increasingly frustrated with the zit hiding just below his chin, and then - tap, tap. It was unmistakable. Someone was knocking.

Michael immediately searched out Luke with his eyes, who was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, having brushed his teeth only moments ago. He was giving Michael an equally suspicious look. Okay, so Luke hadn’t been expecting anyone, either. Luke still wasn’t moving to the door, though - he was fiddling anxiously with his hands, and he wasn’t meeting Michael’s gaze anymore, so now Michael didn’t know what to think. A few moments of silence dragged out, and then the person knocked again, slightly louder. 

“Are you gonna…” Michael trailed off, in a low voice. He stood up. What if it was that secretary down in the office, coming up to give Luke a message? One of them was going to have to answer it. 

Luke let him get a meter away from the door before he held his hand out and said, “Wait, I-”

“Luke?” A voice said in the hallway.

Michael and Luke stared at the door; Luke with crestfallen dread, and Michael with confusion. What the fuck was this? Had Luke actually been expecting someone? God, he was so over not knowing what the hell was going on half the time. He reached for the door and opened it.

“Who on earth are you?” The incredulous voice belonged to a blond stranger. He looked a lot like Luke - so much so that it didn’t take Michael long to realize this stranger and Luke had to be related. Oh, man. This had to be one of Luke’s brothers.

The dude was still waiting for an answer, so Michael shrugged. “Who are  _ you?” _ Luke was out of sight for the time being, hidden by the partly-open door. Michael intentionally did not look back and check on him. If Luke had been nervous enough to not answer when his brother knocked, then Michael was going to protect him. Whatever that meant.

The stranger scoffed, lightly. “I’d like to see Luke.” He tilted his head in a prying, negotiating position that Michael usually associated with store owners. It wasn’t a good thing. “Unless he doesn’t live here anymore…?”

Michael heard some shifting around behind him, and then Luke was at his back, pushing the door open farther. Michael cast him a short glance, trying to get a better read on the situation, and was met with tired eyes and a terse frown. 

“Oh, there you are,” the stranger said, sounding relieved. “Luke, it’s been a while. So glad to see you again, I swear each time-”

“I told you,” Luke interrupted. His voice was worn. “I told you, Ben.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t being serious,” Ben said, with assurance. “Don’t worry. I- Um.” His attention flickered back to Michael. 

Michael knew fuck-all about healthy familial relationships, so he was going to keep his mouth shut for the foreseeable future. He was currently shoving back the urge that told him to grab Luke and shut the door. With effort, he met Ben’s eyes, finding them almost the exact same shade as Luke’s, and feeling a flash of odd possessiveness. As if the shade of Luke’s eyes was special somehow. As if he had some strange claim to them.

Ben cleared his throat. “Luke, who the hell is this?”

Luke sighed audibly. Loudly, Michael said, “Doesn’t matter.”

“I wasn’t told my brother had a roommate now.”

“Why would you be?”

Ben stared at him. “Because he’s my brother!”

Michael shook his head and opened his mouth again, but cut himself off when he saw Luke was pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. He waited for Luke’s next words.

“He’s my friend.” Luke said. Michael felt a rush of pride. “Now. Please. Go.”

“You don’t have any friends, Luke,” Ben said, nonplussed. With teasing skepticism, he continued, “I find it hard to believe that you’d- well, you never get out of the house. How would you even…”

“Fucking hell, Ben.” Sharp lines collected in the seams of Luke’s voice. 

“Don’t swear, mate. You know I don’t like that.”

Luke made a short noise of frustration. “Go home, please.”

“Not until I get answers,” Ben said stubbornly. He pointed at Michael, rudely. “How have I never seen him before? I was just here a few weeks ago. How did this-” he gestured between Michael, Luke, and the apartment- “happen?”

“Not really your business,” Michael interjected.

It was a mistake. Ben blinked at him incredulously. “I’m pretty sure it’s my business. You look like street trash to me, so don’t fucking talk to me like that.”

The insult was unexpected, and it stung at first, but Michael was no stranger to name-calling and intimidation tactics. His lips curled in a sharp smile and held Ben’s gaze until he looked away. Michael glanced towards Luke and saw his jaw was set, and he was glaring at his brother. It gave Michael a hot flutter in his chest. 

“Oh, don’t tell me he  _ is _ street trash,” Ben said. His eyebrows were rising into his expensive-looking haircut. “Luke, you didn’t.”

But Luke’s face was cold, and he was giving Ben a stony look. He shifted an almost indiscernible amount closer to Michael. Michael hated the staredown, and even though he knew he shouldn’t say anything, because it wasn’t his fight, he couldn’t help himself. “Didn’t what?”

Ben’s eyes darted between the two of them, owlishly, face contorting with a growing expression of surprise and amusement. “Oh, wow,” he said, finally. “You’re sleeping with him.”

The words struck Michael like a sledgehammer across his throat, and suddenly he couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe. Ben was wearing an oily smile in the doorway. Michael couldn’t move, but his blood was on fire. Luke’s gaze landed on Michael for a second, then flashed away. There was some guilt in his eyes - he looked apologetic, and, if anything else, pained. It became cold resentment when he turned back to his brother.

Luke deadpanned, “You’re wrong. Please leave.” 

Ben started to move farther into the apartment when Luke pushed on the door. That cruel, manic smile stayed on his face, even as he propped his foot against the door to hold it open. “Hey, hey. Luke. That’s so fucked up. Let’s talk about it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Luke told him.

A flash of betrayal dimmed Ben’s face. “I said I don’t like it when you swear.”

“Move your foot.”

Ben snorted, maintaining his conversational posture. “Oh, Luke, don’t try this, you’re not fooling yourself. Come down to my car. I brought you the usual.”

The words seemed to flick a switch in Luke’s brain, because he shoved the door open wide, making Ben lose his balance.

“How many fucking times?” Luke bit out, voice ringing down the hall. “How many fucking times do you want me to say it? Get the fuck out! Don’t come back.”

“Holy shit,” Ben swore, lifting his hands. “Alright.” He looked more than surprised at Luke’s outburst, which Michael understood, because Luke had gone from mild-tempered to explosive in a split second, and neither of them had been prepared. Even when Michael had argued with Luke a week ago Luke hadn’t raised his voice - but he was in nicotine withdrawal now, which Michael suspected had something to do with it.

Ben cast his gaze between Luke and Michael. He gave Luke a tight smile. Luke’s jaw worked, but he didn’t look away. Ben turned around, not sparing Michael a glance, and stalked off down the hallway, his footfalls sharp and haughty against the carpet.

Luke stood motionless for a second, then yanked the door shut, snapping the lock back into place with a heavy click. He didn’t look at Michael. He reached out as he was going to grab Michael’s hand - but when his fingers brushed Michael’s palm, Luke retracted his hand, quickly, like he’d been burned. 

“Sorry,” Luke muttered, wincing as an afterthought. He passed Michael and went towards the couch, clawing his fingers through his hair. 

Michael willed himself into action. There was a lot of shit Ben had said that he was going to have to unpack later, but right now, he could only focus on Luke. He hurried over to the couch, to where Luke was sitting, hands over his face. Luke watched him approach sullenly through his fingers.

Michael crossed his legs and sat down on the carpet in front of Luke. He sat far enough away that it didn’t feel weird to have his face at Luke’s knee level. Well, it still felt weird, but he was able to ignore it. He met Luke’s eyes. Luke opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything - instead, he tilted his head against the back of the couch and let out a long, angry sigh.

“Sorry,” Luke said again, voice muffled by his hands. “I know you don’t like apologies. Sorry, sorry. I didn’t know he’d be coming today. I… Ben’s my brother.”

He said  _ brother _ like it was something separate from him, as if it wasn’t his brother he was referring to, but somebody else’s. Michael nodded. As long as Luke kept talking, he’d be fine; as long as he didn’t take his distress and brood over it alone in his room, he’d be okay. “Yeah, I could tell.”

Luke propped his head up and eyed Michael. “Right. Well. So last month he came by, and he brought food, and some rent money. But I didn’t take the money. I didn’t think he’d be back, I told him last time not to, but…” he gestured aimlessly. “Anyway. He’s kind of…”

“A dick?” Michael offered. 

Luke cracked a tiny smile at him. “Yeah.” Luke didn’t need to explain why he hadn’t taken the money Ben offered - he had told Michael one night about how he felt like he had to prove himself, and how he hated having to rely on other people to support him. He had said it fairly less eloquently in short sentences over a cigarette.

They sat in silence, hovering between awkward and comfortable. Michael glanced out the window at the strangely sunny sky, and scratched his knee absently. He ignored the cold, street-weathered voice in his head;  _ Luke should have taken the money. _ It wasn’t really his business how Luke lived his life, and Luke had his reasons, but he couldn’t stop his instinctual spite. His mind circled back to the conversation with Ben. Luke had told Ben that Michael was his friend, which had been admittedly very satisfying to hear. And Ben had accused them of sleeping together. That complicated things slightly. Michael turned back to Luke, who was biting on his thumbnail, staring at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Michael said. He shuffled forward on the carpet and reached out to tap Luke’s knee. Luke’s gaze immediately shifted to Michael and he crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands away, nodding in small gratitude. 

After one of Luke’s frustrated nighttime outbursts a few days ago, Michael had started reminding Luke to stop biting his nails. This unfortunately meant Luke had taken on other small habits, like sucking on his lip, chewing on the ends of pens, and the like. Michael was beginning to think Luke was developing some kind of oral fixation. Which was- well. It was a thing that Michael tried not to think about.

Something pricked at Michael. He had been expecting Luke to maybe sit down on the floor with him, or beckon him to sit on the couch, or something, because Luke was - as Michael had learned - very physical when it came to affection or comfort. Which was great, because Michael was too. And it was terrible for the same reason. But Luke hadn’t - he hadn’t even really met Michael’s gaze since he sat down, and Michael was starting to think it was something Ben had said. The specific thing Ben had said about them sleeping together. Maybe Luke wanted to make sure Michael knew they weren’t anything more than friends, so he was withdrawing. 

“Luke,” Michael prompted. 

Luke wasn’t looking at him. “What?”

Michael tried to choose his words carefully, hoping he was reading the situation right. “I wasn’t offended. By… what your brother said to me.”

Luke exhaled. “He treats everyone like shit, except for me, I guess, and it’s fucking awful. I’m sorry. About him.”

“No.” Michael shook his head. “No, don’t be.” 

But Luke still wasn’t making eye contact, and he was closed off, with his arms crossed and his expression distant. Michael stood up quickly and slid onto the couch next to Luke, on his knees with his legs tucked under him, side against the couch cushions so he could face Luke head-on. 

Luke turned and glanced at Michael, then away. Michael reached out and pulled one of Luke’s hands free. There was little resistance, and Luke met Michael’s gaze, dubiously.

“It’s okay,” Michael said. The words felt easier to say now than they had for his entire life. He held Luke’s hand, tight, hoping to convey what he was thinking - he didn’t even really know what he was thinking, he just wanted Luke to somehow understand that Michael didn’t care that Ben had thought they were sleeping together, that it didn’t bother him. Before everything else, before his feelings, he was Luke’s friend.

Luke’s gaze flickered between Michael’s face and their joined hands. His expression was open now, and there was something new in it that Michael hadn’t seen in this way before; it was nervousness. Michael didn’t know what to make of it.

“It’s fine,” Michael said. He swallowed, feeling his Adam's apple bob in his throat. “And...that… didn’t offend me, either.”

Looking into Luke’s eyes, Michael saw Luke’s understanding, but it didn’t temper the atmosphere at all. If anything, it made the air thicker and harder to navigate, because now Luke was staring at Michael’s face intently, searching, and Michael felt torn open, exposed; it wasn’t nighttime, so there were no shadows to hide in. And Luke’s blue, blue, endless eyes were close enough to Michael’s face that he could pick out individual lines and patterns in them. 

“Okay,” Luke whispered.

Michael’s eyes dropped to Luke’s lips, and he couldn’t look away, so he forced his entire head to turn and he let go of Luke’s hand. He cleared his throat and tried to breathe again. Luke was going to make him go completely insane. 

Luke shook his head once, roughly, a shock of blond curls in Michael’s peripheral vision, and breathed out a relieved sigh. When Michael dared a glance back at Luke’s face, he saw a tiny smile, and the tenseness in the air splintered. He didn’t get a close look at Luke’s expression; Luke leaned into him half a second later and gave him a short, chaste, one-armed hug. Michael stifled a noise of surprise and tried to tamp down the giddiness that bubbled around his heart. He’d never really get used to hugging Luke, in general, but when it was unexpected, it carried something extra that he couldn’t describe.

“So,” Luke said, drawing back. “It’s Sunday.”

Michael squinted at him. “Yeah, so what?”

“We both don’t have to work today, that’s what. Are you telling me you still don’t know my work schedule?”

“Oh, right,” Michael conceded. He felt a smile twist his lips. “And yes. I barely even know my own.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Well. Is there anything you want to do?”

Michael searched his mind. He couldn’t come up with a single thing he wanted to do other than sit here and look at Luke, but he wasn’t going to say that. Instead, he shrugged, and said, “No, not really.”

“Damn,” Luke sighed. “Now I’ll have to think of something. Or I’ll just end up playing guitar all day.”

Yeah, Michael knew that. Luke didn’t have any hobbies other than guitar. It didn’t sound like a bad thing, though, to listen to Luke play all afternoon. Michael let his eyes slip over Luke’s profile - Luke was staring thoughtfully at the blank TV, arm along the back of the couch, wearing a baggy green hoodie and old ripped jeans. It was a good look. Everything was a good look on Luke, though. 

Michael worked up the courage to ask, evasively, “Can I play your guitar?”

Luke turned to look at him again. There was a cunning smile gracing the corners of his mouth, as if he had been expecting Michael to ask. 

“What?” Michael said, crossly.

“Nothing,” Luke told him. The small smile didn’t leave his face. “Yeah, sure. Of course you can.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. With Luke’s superior tone posing as a challenge, Michael searched for something to hold over him, and settled on, “I played it when you were out yesterday.” 

“I know.” Luke grinned, and the full force of his smile sent Michael’s heart racing. “And the day before, right? You always put it back too close to the window.”

Oh, fuck, did he? Michael shook his head and huffed a laugh. Of course Luke had noticed. He bit down his pride. “Right. I should’ve asked first, I guess.”

“Nah.” Luke waved his hand. “It’s fine. You live here too. Do whatever.”

Michael nodded, grateful. He stood up and hesitated. Luke looked up at him, expression benign and gentle - like he was completely comfortable in Michael’s presence - and Michael felt a strange shaky heat pool in his stomach. The fact Michael had been living with Luke for over a week and he still got shivers when Luke glanced at him a certain way was honestly very fucking terrifying. The fact Luke held that kind of sway over him was unlike anything he was used to; he was used to doing what he wanted, regardless of other people, and he was used to being the master of his own body and mind. 

Who knew happiness and fear could come hand in hand? Because god, he loved how Luke made him feel, but he was absolutely terrified of how far he was falling. 

“Can you teach me,” Michael blurted out, flatly. He cleared his throat.

Luke’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, to- oh. Yeah, sure.” He waited a split-second. “Now?”

Michael shrugged. He felt a smile curl his lips. Oh, fuck, this was such a mistake, he was going to die - Luke teaching him how to play guitar? Did he have a fucking deathwish? He didn’t care to think that over. Michael’s head was a flutter of disjointed thoughts.

“Yeah,” he managed. Fucking pathetic. He hated Luke so much.

Luke grinned at him, and Michael’s stupid stomach flipped. “Okay.”

  
  


**19**

_So much for keeping this just friends_

In Luke’s bedroom, Luke grabbed his telecaster and gave it to Michael. Michael took it and sat down on Luke’s bed, like he usually did when Luke was out, because he was feeling reckless and he didn’t want to walk back to the couch. Luke only seemed a bit fazed. He recovered quickly.

“So,” Luke started, gingerly sitting on his bed on Michael’s right. His bed wasn’t exactly made, but the sheets were pulled up enough to give it the same impression. 

“So,” Michael parroted. Luke sent him a reproachful look. Michael took pity on him and started playing a riff - power chords, and the guitar was tuned in E, which meant he couldn’t even play it in  the right key.

“Oh, sick, the Misfits?”

And Luke recognized the song. Why did Michael find that sexy as fuck? Did he have a kink for boys who knew punk music? Trying to tone down his enthusiasm, he replied, “Yeah, it is.”

Luke nodded. Michael was struck with an uncontrollable impulse and made to slide the guitar off his lap, pushing it at Luke. “Here, you play something.” 

“This is your lesson,” Luke said, dodging the request. He was half-smiling, half chewing on his lip - something he did a lot, especially when he was either sheepish or amused, and Michael sort of loved it. Not like he’d ever admit to something like that.

Michael smirked. “Then teach me something.” If it came across as flirty, then whatever. He was going to die someday.

Luke tilted his head, thinking. “Uhh, okay. Do you know Check Yes Juliet by We The Kings?”   
  


\---

Michael didn’t know how long it took him to learn the chords, but probably too long, because he couldn’t concentrate on the fretboard when Luke was leaning close to him. Luke was speaking quietly in a low voice. That didn’t help, either. Luke also smelled like shampoo and that lovely cologne and something else, something very  _ Luke,  _ underneath. His hair looked soft, and Michael ached to sink his hands into his golden curls. That wasn’t a new thought. Michael was pretty sure he had a thing for touching Luke’s hair, but he hadn’t tested it out yet.

At one point, Luke finished teaching him the verse and chorus. “This part’s a little bit harder,” he explained. “It’s the intro. You’re gonna put your hand-” He struggled to mime it to Michael, but got frustrated. “Here, actually, let me just show you.”

Apparently they were done keeping their distance today - apparently Ben’s accusation had worn off enough that Luke was comfortable with pressing himself against Michael again. That was pretty fucking nice, Michael thought, weakly. Luke had shuffled around so he was sitting mostly behind Michael, on his knees, and before Michael could crack some stupid joke to clear the air, Luke had leaned forward and slid his left hand around the neck of the guitar. And Michael temporarily forgot how to speak.

“It’s just like…” Luke’s voice was soft, and his mouth was right next to Michael’s ear. Michael fought down a shiver. He turned his head to the left, towards Luke, and watched Luke’s long fingers curl into a modified barre chord. Luke wasn’t completely against him, only leaning his front partially on Michael’s left shoulder, but it was enough to render Michael both speechless and immobile. 

“Okay,” Michael breathed, finally. His hand replaced Luke’s on the fretboard, and he tried to replicate the pattern. No, fuck, that was wrong. 

Luke laughed, once, hot against the side of Michael’s neck. “Sorry. Yeah, almost got it. Um, here.” 

Michael obediently let his hand be guided by Luke’s. Luke adjusted Michael’s fingers one by one. Michael could barely pay attention to anything but the pads of Luke’s fingertips, because he was gone, gone, gone, and this was becoming too much for him to handle. His heart was a pyre, and he was burning. 

“That’s it. Cool. It’s a picking pattern this time. Um - you’re going to hit the fourth string, then third, then fourth… and switch between your second and third fingers on the sixth and seventh frets.”

Willing his voice to be normal, Michael said, “What the fuck, okay.” 

Luke huffed a laugh. The hair on the back of Michael’s neck stood up. “You said you knew what the song sounded like.”

Michael took a deep breath and tried. He didn’t get it. He was starting to think his hands were intentionally double-crossing him in an effort for Luke to touch him again - a valiant cause that Michael was starting to really sympathize with, despite his determination to actually learn how to play this song. Luke was still sitting behind him, and Michael’s mind went to all kinds of dirty places thinking about that. He was looking over Michael’s shoulder. Michael wanted more than anything to turn his head until he was centimeters away from Luke’s blue eyes, just to watch him, just to feel Luke’s breath on his lips, just to see. One of these days. One of these fucking days Michael was going to snap and kiss Luke, and it would all be over. 

Or maybe it wouldn’t? Luke was sitting so close to him, after all, and they’d spent so much time together over the past week… and Luke smiled at him so often, and Luke held his hand and curled up with him on the roof…

And now Luke was leaning forward again, but on his right side. Michael actually did shiver this time. Fuck, fuck. And Luke felt it, because he was resting on Michael’s right shoulder, reaching with his hand to pick at the guitar strings. He stopped abruptly in response. Michael sent a dying wish to any god that would listen to kill him quickly.

“If I’m bothering you, tell me, okay?” Luke said. “Or if you don’t wanna play anymore. It’s all fine.”

How the fuck was that a conclusion Luke drew? Michael shivering with oversensitive nerves, being touched after so long touch-starved, _ Luke- _ starved, and Luke assumed Michael didn’t want to play guitar anymore? No, he didn’t want to stop. Well, what he actually wanted to do was turn around, press Luke into the mattress, sink his hands into Luke’s golden-blond curls and kiss him until they were both breathless, but that was a different problem.

Michael half-laughed. “No, it’s great,” he said. “I like learning this song. I’ll tell you, though, if not.” He added the last part to reassure Luke. One of the things Michael had picked up on about Luke over the past few days was the fact he got insecure over some things, of which Michael struggled to guess, so he resolved to cover for them whenever he could in case.

“Okay, cool,” Luke said. He repositioned himself so he could strum the guitar over Michael’s shoulder. His hair brushed Michael’s cheek. Michael tried really fucking hard not to blush, because this wasn’t really happening, goddamnit, there was no way he was being  _ just friends _ with Luke when Luke was teaching him to play guitar like this, when he could have taken the guitar from Michael and demonstrated from afar instead of draping himself over Michael’s shoulders - not that Michael was complaining, but his mind had taken to helpfully pointing that out, and it was making him go crazy.

Michael somehow lasted the rest of the time it took for him to learn the song without letting his impulses get the best of him. It was a remarkable achievement. Hot satisfaction burned in his chest when he could finally play the intro, the bridge, the chorus and verse, forged from both spite and paid-off determination. Finally he was getting what he’d wanted when he was sixteen - it was a sweet victory, sweetened by Luke’s elated grin when Michael played the whole thing, start to finish. 

\---

Later that day, Luke and Michael were in front of the TV. It was afternoon already; their routine of working late and staying up later had pushed their day back, so they usually fell asleep a few hours past midnight and woke up a couple hours before noon.

There was something nagging at Michael’s head. It was the conversation with Ben. He fought to forget about it, knowing how pointless it was to dwell on it, but it kept coming back. The drone of the TV had disintegrated from his conscious mind, and he stared blankly at the wall. He might be fucking stupid, but he felt like he was missing something, something obvious, something Ben had said - Michael was hovering on the edge of realization. Ben had… he’d assumed Luke was sleeping with Michael. And- oh.

Oh, fuck-

So Luke was into guys. 

Well. At least Ben thought so. Which was- he was Luke’s brother, after all, so he probably  _ would _ have some kind of knowledge on the matter- but- 

Jesus fuck, things had gotten a lot more confusing. Michael was going to swear off thinking about anything, forever. It only brought trouble.  _ Luke was into guys. _ Maybe. No, or maybe Ben was just making fun of him, or something? But that hadn’t been the butt of the joke. The thing Ben found funny wasn’t that Luke would be gay, it was that he was sleeping with  _ Michael.  _ So Ben hadn’t been joking about that. Ben really thought Luke liked men. Oh fucking boy.

Michael glanced over at Luke, who was scrolling through his phone. As always, the first thought that struck Michael was  _ god, he’s hot, _ because his hair was perfect and his face was perfect, angular in all the right places, and now Luke was looking at him too.

“What?” Luke said, almost petulant. 

Michael couldn’t look away. He felt a helpless smile curl his lips. “Huh?”

“Why are you-” Luke flapped his hand in Michael’s direction. “Whatever. I was thinking takeout tonight?”

“For dinner?” Michael asked, surprised. 

Luke nodded. “Well, yeah, I dunno. I’m sick of soup. We could get chinese or something? I have twenty bucks from Venmo, and we get our paycheques this week, so.”

Michael hadn’t forgotten about the paycheques. He was more than excited for Friday to come around. “Yeah, that sounds great. I can give you ten back on Friday.”

“No,” Luke said. “No, it’s on me. I was going- well, I was gonna thank you.” He cleared his throat, suddenly more awkward. “You know. After my brother. You were…” After trailing off, he fidgeted, then continued. “...really nice. Thanks.”

A tsunami of heat flooded Michael’s chest. He didn’t know how to respond to Luke thanking him, but he opened his mouth anyway. “It’s no problem,” he said. That was probably sufficient. Luke was giving him a dopey smile. It was so fucking cute that Michael kind of wanted to push him off the couch. 

“For real, though. Michael. Thanks.”

The tsunami rose into his throat, and Michael felt his cheeks go warm. “Shut up.” He said, trying for gruffness but probably sounding whiny instead. “Stop being sappy.”

In answer, Luke rolled his eyes and picked up his phone, biting his lip like he was trying not to smile, and said, “No.” Michael felt his own gaze fall to Luke’s mouth, unbidden, and looked hurriedly away before Luke noticed. The TV was too boring to focus on. Especially when there was a much more interesting distraction sitting on the couch next to him.

“Luke,” Michael complained, for lack of better things to do. “I’m hungry.”

“Already?”

“Well, what time is it?” 

Luke gave him a hard look, accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. He read from his phone screen. “Almost five.”

“Wanna go get dinner now?”

It wasn’t purely selfish that Michael wanted to go get food now. He was thinking ahead. Luke was completely out of cigarettes, and his body would be expecting one tonight, because it had been one night since his last. It would be nicer if Luke didn’t have to deal with peak withdrawal symptoms while they had dinner. And, well, it would be easier for Michael to handle him if they were alone.

Luke picked up the remote and clicked the TV off. “Okay, fine.”

So Luke was into guys.

Fucking hell, shut up, Michael told himself. He shook his head to clear it and stood up with a grin, feeling like his brain was hooked up to one of those spinning teapot carousel rides with no end in sight. Angrily, he shoved down his thoughts, trying to pour as much energy into the present as he could.

\---

Delivery would cost Luke an extra five bucks, so they walked down to the chinese restaurant instead. The sun was low on the horizon. Redfern’s underwhelming night life was slowly beginning. And Michael was still thinking, despite his intentions.

Maybe he should tell Luke he was bisexual? Maybe there was some way to segue into that topic? So then if Luke was actually into dudes, maybe he’d tell Michael in exchange? Or maybe it would backfire catastrophically and Luke would start avoiding him, wouldn’t touch him anymore, wouldn’t hold his hand anymore. Michael’s heart clenched at the thought. He didn’t know what the best thing to do was. What he did know was that he couldn’t take _this_ \- acting as they were - much longer, because he knew he was going to screw something up. It was pretty much bound to happen. He’d flirt too obviously by accident, or he’d get a boner at the wrong time, or he’d snap and kiss Luke on the mouth. This wasn’t sustainable.

“Hey, look at those lights.”

Michael turned his head to follow Luke’s gesture. There was a cluster of red and orange fairy lights, suspended around a sign advertising some fancy restaurant. Luke was looking at them too, which meant it was more than easy to let his gaze slip onto Luke’s profile, thrown into all kinds of blue shadows under the darkening sky. His hair was pushed behind his ear. His lips were curled in a tiny smile.

“Pretty,” Michael said, softly.

“Hmm.”

Michael spent undue effort making himself look away. “Is this it?”

Luke turned towards the shopfronts, the leftovers of a wistful smile on his face. He nodded. “Oh yeah. This is it.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part titles in this act:
> 
> Chasing Rainbows by Bring Me The Horizon  
> The Space Between A Rock And A Hard Place by 5SOS  
> Burn Bright by My Chemical Romance  
> 27 by Fall Out Boy  
> For Baltimore by All Time Low


	5. ACT V

**20**

_One foot in the golden life, one foot in the gutter  
_

A couple of hours later, Luke was starting to get fidgety. He’d been a little off-kilter for the whole day, but now it was escalating like it always did in the evenings. The difference tonight was that there were no cigarettes left. All Michael had to do was give Luke a look, eyebrows raised, and Luke knew what he was asking - Luke nodded quickly, worrying at his lip, and they went up to the roof without further exchange.

Once the heavy door had closed at the top of the exit stairwell, throwing Luke and Michael into darkness, Luke stalked over to the ledge. Michael had to wait for his eyes to adjust first - and he didn’t want to join Luke just yet. Luke was frustratingly resistant to showing weakness when he was angry, and even though it didn’t last for longer than a few minutes, Michael usually gave Luke the space to work himself out first. 

Michael walked to the ledge, hands in his pockets, to stand beside Luke. The city was bright tonight; it was uncharacteristically foggy to the south, but the view past the train tracks, towards downtown Sydney, was clear, providing the view of a glittering skyline in the distance. It was with a mix of longing and bitterness that Michael contemplated the lights.

He flipped up the flimsy collar of his windbreaker to keep out the chill. Luke hovered on the edge of his senses, as always, a tall, grim figure in the night. Michael watched him out of the corner of his eye.

It didn’t take long for Luke to slump down on the black tar of the roof with his hands over his face. Michael followed him seconds later, letting his arms fall into place around Luke’s shoulders, letting Luke lean into his body, hold onto him. Michael didn’t even try to stop himself from tracing patterns on Luke’s back. His eyes fell shut, and he focused on Luke’s breathing. Luke’s fingers were trembling, fidgeting against the fabric of Michael’s jacket, and Michael held him tighter. It would be hard tonight, he knew. 

“I feel like shit,” Luke said, muffled.

Michael smoothed a hand down the back of Luke’s jacket. “Yeah.”

Somehow, right now, Luke going through withdrawal made Michael want to drink. It was like he was holding up a mirror to Michael - throwing light on things he’d rather keep in the dark. The urge was so sudden and so strong that Michael’s mind went white, and he detached himself from Luke in a hurry, shoving himself into a standing position. He hopped up on the rough concrete ledge.

“Michael-” Luke exclaimed, alarmed. Michael glanced back at him; Luke was right where Michael had left him, curled on the roof, but his eyes were wide.

Toes only a few centimeters from the edge, from fifteen meters of open air, Michael felt adrenaline light up his veins. His mind was more coherent than ever. He beckoned Luke. “Come on, come up here.”

But Luke stayed, shaking his head vigorously. “No. Fuck no.”

“I swear it’ll make you feel better.”

“Michael!” Luke said, frantic. “I can’t do heights, okay? I’m afraid of heights.”

“Even better,” Michael pushed. “You’ll be more distracted.”

“I said, I can’t,” Luke restated, the tone of his voice sharp. His lips had twisted in an unpleasant scowl, and he fidgeted angrily, casting furtive glances up at Michael. “Don’t stand up there.”

Michael breathed in the cool air. A motorcycle flew by on Regent Street with a roar, and the whistles of two trains sounded, one after the other. Wind battered Michael’s body, not quite strong enough to shift his position, but enough to make him sway in place. Hair in his eyes, the scent of metal and gasoline in his lungs, burning fire in his chest. “It’s okay,” he told Luke. 

Another backwards glance informed Michael that Luke was chewing violently on his fingernails. It made Michael’s heart pang. He looked down off the edge of the roof once more, reveling in the acceleration of his pulse, and then hopped down onto the tar. Luke watched him with unmistakable reproach. Michael leaned back on the safe side of the ledge again, barely understanding why Luke was angry at him, and let Luke curl against him. 

“I didn’t know you were afraid of heights,” Michael said. He had meant what he’d said before, about balancing on the edge of the roof. Fear took Michael’s mind off his addiction, so it might work with Luke, too. 

Luke shrugged in response and muttered something into Michael’s shoulder. 

“What?”

With a sigh, warm against Michael’s neck, Luke mumbled, “Don’t stand on the ledge, okay? It freaks me out.”

Michael hummed, letting that sentiment roll around in his head. Luke was worried about him falling. It made his chest feel tight in a way that was starting to become achingly familiar. The giddiness infected him, wiping away the grimness from his voice. “I can still sit on it, then?” He joked.

A pause, broken only by the rumble of vehicles, consumed them. “As long as you don’t fall,” Luke whispered, face hidden against Michael’s collar. He pulled back, face still in shadows, and sat against the ledge beside Michael, still leaning on his shoulder.

A shivery feeling enveloped Michael - he felt it zing through his limbs, reverberate across his bones, dance like electricity between the latticework of nerves in his body. Michael almost opened his mouth and said  _ you can’t just say stuff like that, _ but he bit down on his lip in time to prevent himself, choosing instead to let the shivers pool in his stomach like the aftershocks of an earthquake. Luke couldn’t say things like that and expect Michael to just- pretend it was normal. Pretend everything between them was normal. Could he? Well. Yes, he could, and Michael was maybe slightly overreacting, but… they didn’t say things like that to each other. Especially not in murmurs, spoken against each other’s bodies, bleeding with affection and fear and loneliness. Michael was drowning in the endless expanse of the Sydney night.

An airplane, accompanied by a low white noise, faded in and out of the sky above. Michael was brought back to reality when Luke started grinding his teeth.

“My hands are tingling,” Luke said, sounding desolate. “I can’t do this. I cannot do this.”

“Shh,” Michael soothed him. He still had one arm around Luke, and he pulled Luke closer against his body, letting Luke’s head fall against his shoulder. He deliberated over reintroducing the idea of nicotine replacements - Luke hadn’t responded so well last night when he’d mentioned it. He took a breath and tried anyway. 

“Have you thought about getting that gum I was talking about, or-”

“I don’t want it.” At least Luke hadn’t wavered on his goals. “I don’t want to get hooked on something else. I just want to be done with it.” Right at the end, his voice trembled. Michael glanced at him. He was biting his lip, fiercely, hair obscuring his eyes. He took a rattling breath and it caught in his throat.

Oh, shit, Michael thought. Oh, shit. Because Luke was sniffling now, clearly frustrated, wiping at his eyes with reckless temper, and he was crying. Sort of crying. His hands moved with trembling aggression. And Michael didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t ever known what to do when someone was crying. But this was Luke, and Michael knew Luke, so he did what felt right - what felt instinctual - and reached out, ghosting his hand over the side of Luke’s face. Luke stopped trying to swipe moisture from his eyes and then inexplicably, unfathomably, turned his cheek into Michael’s hand. Luke’s skin was soft and radiating with heat, and there were wet tears on Michael’s fingertips, and he still didn’t know what to do.

Faintly, Michael wished he had met Luke under different circumstances. He wished he’d met Luke in a world where fate had been kinder, and where life could be easier, where he was able to spend time with Luke and not have to worry about money or alcohol or cigarettes. Where he could have flirted with the pretty blond stranger on the street; seen his stunning smile and fallen in love instantly; not been afraid of cutting himself on the sharp edges of shattered glass at his feet. Where he could afford to make mistakes, and friends, and promises.

“Luke,” he whispered. Luke’s eyes were closed, and Michael brushed his thumb over Luke’s cheekbone, catching tears along the way. 

And how fucked up was Michael, to still want to kiss Luke even when Luke was bleeding like this? He should be focusing on making Luke feel better. He was - but he was also reminded that Luke, like everyone else, had good and bad. He wanted to be more than Luke’s friend. He’d take the good and bad, and everything in between - whatever came with Luke, he wanted it too. 

“Yeah?” Luke murmured, sounding miserable. 

How was Michael supposed to express any of his thoughts to Luke? The world was not made for people like them to be happy. He wanted to shake Luke’s shoulders and demand that Luke make nice with his brother, borrow his family’s money and go  _ somewhere else, _ far away from this shitty corner of Sydney, and find real help and a real life.  _ This world is a nightmare, _ he’d say.  _ I threw my life away when I was fifteen. But you can still wake up. Please, please wake up. _

Michael shut his eyes, hard, and said, “Luke.” He couldn’t go on. He didn’t want to be left here alone.

So he said nothing more. He stroked Luke’s hair back from his face, and Luke let out a strangled, trembling breath. A single drop of water fell on Michael’s wrist. And then it started to rain.

\---

When Michael woke up the next day, it was still raining. He couldn’t remember his dreams, but the empty feeling he’d had when he’d woken up indicated they hadn’t been good. When he finally swung his legs off the couch and forced himself to stand up, he caught sight of Luke at the kitchen table - he was staring unseeingly at a bowl of dry cereal, picking at his lip, and fiddling anxiously with a spoon, but his face broke into a smile when he say Michael. It was a good morning.

Michael had a two-till-ten shift at La Coppola, because it was Monday. Luke seemed uncomfortable about staying in the apartment alone for so long, but he didn’t have any cigarettes left, and if he went out without the key he’d be locked out of the apartment until past ten. Still, it was hard for Michael to leave.

The shift felt longer than ever. Michael was coming off his half hour break when Ashton showed up again. 

“Nice weekend?” Ashton asked. His cheer was contagious, and the late-afternoon pink-streaked skies outside the window felt like an omen of good things to come. It had stopped raining at some point. Michael shrugged and smiled, feeling grim amusement at the memory of Luke’s brother showing up yesterday, and a flash of heat thinking about Luke helping him play guitar. 

“Yeah, it was fine. What about you? What’d you do?” 

Ashton checked that Ashley wasn’t around before launching into conversation. “Oh, I had a great weekend. I actually moved house, too- I got a flat with this one guy, he’s from the US, but he’s studying at the University of Technology this semester.” That was one of the top universities in Sydney, and it was over the train tracks. Michael nodded along to Ashton’s story and absentmindedly scratched at the edge of the sink, thinking about Luke.

“...you live with Luke, right?”

Michael glanced up. “Yeah.”

“How’s that? You guys dating yet?”

“Ashton,” Michael complained, giving him a petulant look. Ashton brought the topic up often enough that Michael was almost getting used to it. Almost. Michael had made the mistake of admitting that he thought Luke was hot a few days ago, and he was never going to live it down.

Ashton cracked a grin. “Oh, alright, fine. Ashley thinks you’re together, you know. All that-” he waved his hand- “gazing at each other when you’re both on shift. You think I don’t notice, but I do. You’re totally hopeless.”

Gazing at each other? No, it was just Michael staring, because he couldn’t help himself sometimes. Was it?

The confusion must have shown on Michael’s face, because Ashton cackled. He cut himself off abruptly - Ashley had come into eyesight - and bid Michael a hasty goodbye through unmoving lips. Michael watched him go. He’d definitely have to ask for clarification on whether or not Luke was staring at him, too, and he cursed Ashton in his mind for leaving without explaining. It was important information. 

A couple more hours passed. Ashton clocked out around nine with a friendly wave to Michael, who flipped him off in good humored response. The restaurant had become busier as the evening wore on. Still, he was thinking about Luke; he wondered what Luke was doing in the apartment by himself.

Michael remembered last night on the roof. His thoughts were clearer now, more reasonable, so he could objectively understand why Luke wouldn’t want to live in his brother’s pocket. He knew what it was like to want to throw away people. He’d lived for seven years without so much as a single friend who lasted longer than eighteen months, and he’d spent a long time more than happy with that. He was allowed to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. But he also had to watch his own back. It came down to a very basic method: fuck the world, and don’t give a shit about anything. 

He found that kind of life didn’t sit right with him anymore.

It didn’t seem to be the life Luke wanted, either. He wanted- well, Michael was pretty sure all Luke wanted was some independence from his family and success in his music career. For now, it wasn’t doing him that good. With time, though, and luck… Luke could find another way out of this pit, and he wouldn’t have to rely on his brother to get him there. 

Michael caught himself checking the clock multiple times a minute, getting more and more frustrated by its sluggishness. He needed to see Luke again. All these hours with Luke on his mind were making him scatterbrained and unproductive.

Michael was staring at his hands when he heard Luke’s voice. “Hey.” For a moment, he was convinced he was hallucinating. 

Michael turned around. Luke was leaning against the opposite wall, a tiny smile gracing his lips, pointing to the clock on the wall. He must have slipped in a second ago, footsteps hidden in the restaurant’s commotion. 

“Hey,” Michael said, slowly. He felt a grin creep onto his face. God, Luke was a sight for sore eyes. A flutter of worry still managed to tug at his heart - he dropped his voice slightly when he asked, “All good?”

Luke shrugged. “Oh, you know. Mostly. Your shift’s over now.” He sent Michael another shy smile. Michael thought about what Ashton said, and he felt his cheeks warm up, hoping Luke wouldn’t notice. Yeah, Luke was hot, and no, they weren’t dating, unfortunately, and everything seemed a bit too stressful at the moment to make a move, so no, Ashton, Michael was  _ not _ going to ask Luke out. 

Realizing he’d been silent a moment too long, Michael blinked and looked at the clock. Luke was right; it was ten. He let out a relieved breath. “Awesome.”

“I’ll wait outside. I’m not totally sure I’m supposed to be back here right now.” 

Michael nodded, more than desperate to leave the restaurant, and they parted ways.

\---

“Luke’s outside,” Ashley said, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb, standing in the doorway of the staff room as Michael dug through the papers on the desk, searching for a pen. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how long have you two been together?” 

Oh, no, Michael thought. Ashley couldn’t be serious. “Uh,” he said. He found a pen and uncapped it, reaching next for the timesheet. “We…” Ashley still hadn’t wavered on her question. Weakly, Michael added, “Why do you ask?”

Ashley shrugged. “I’m sending two cheques to the same bank account this week.” 

Michael’s heart got stuck in his throat, and he froze in the middle of writing his name on the timesheet. He managed to resume movement before Ashley noticed anything was wrong, which was a blessing. She sounded so confident, too. Oh, god. How was he going to- okay, he had to say something, and fast. He schooled his face into a far less panicked expression and said the first thing that came to mind. 

“Uh,” Michael said, with a short laugh. “We’ve only been… together for a few weeks.” If Ashley told Luke he’d said that, Michael would die. But they  _ were _ using the same bank account, and there was no way he was going to take the time to explain the real reason for that. “It’s just easier for- finance, you know, if we use a joint account.” He dared to glance up, and he saw Ashley’s kind smile. He felt bad lying to her. 

“Yeah,” she said, benevolently. “Well, have a nice night, Michael, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Michael escaped the room without further incident.

\---

“So,” Michael started. “What’s up?”   
  


Luke glanced at him. “Nothing, really.” He squeezed Michael’s hand, because it was nighttime again, and they could do things like this and somehow get away with it. “Just wanted to come say hi. It’s so boring in the apartment without you.”

Michael found his last point hard to believe - he’d lived by himself for months before Michael showed up, and he managed to keep himself busy back then. He gave Luke a quick side eye, responsibly creeping up like vines around his chest. “Did you-“

Luke understood at once and raised his free hand, innocently. “No, I came straight here. All good.” All good, okay. Luke’s hand was gripping a tiny bit too tight to be normal, enough to mask potential jitters, but Michael believed him. The dull calmness Luke sported after a cigarette wasn’t present at the moment.

They walked for a minute in silence. Michael had something weighing heavy on his mind; he was itching to ask Luke a million questions. He wanted to know why Luke was so angry at his brother, and why he’d never really mentioned his parents - and why he toed the line of closer-than-friends so effortlessly with Michael. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He’d have the time later. Right now, all he wanted to do was walk home with Luke.

  
  


**21**

_Tried to make you stay with my words, but this time I lost you_

Thankfully, on Tuesday, Ashley wasn’t in. Her assistant manager was - Michael still didn’t know his name - and he told Michael that she was taking a day to see her family. Luke wouldn’t have to be subject to her questions about his and Michael’s nonexistent dating life. That was a temporary victory, but Michael would sure as hell take it.

On Wednesday, Luke and Michael woke up late. Michael blamed it on the cloudy skies being too dim to alert his body to the fact it was daytime. In reality, it was probably because they’d stayed up on the roof playing tic-tac-toe with numbers until three in the morning. Luke somehow won at least 75% of the matches. Of course, that had nothing to do with the fact Luke had spent most of the matches tracing out the tic-tac-toe hash on the back of Michael’s hand, then his arm, then just above his knee, all with the delicate brush of his index finger - nothing to do with how Michael’s brain went absolutely haywire with electricity whenever Luke touched him like that, like he was worthy of that much gentleness and affection. Michael could have sworn Luke was doing it on purpose to distract him. The feeling of Luke’s fingertip drawing lines on the palm of his hand stayed with him, hovering at the edges of his conscious mind.

Which was why, even now, he was thinking about Luke’s hands as they sat at the kitchen table together, eating breakfast. He struggled to dig his brain out of the gutter when he watched Luke’s fingers curl around a spoon.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Michael opened his mouth and started talking, asking the first thing that came to mind. “Why do you hate your family?”

Oh, why the fuck had he just said that? Luke looked up and frowned at him. Michael definitely deserved the prickly stare. It wasn’t nighttime, and Luke hadn’t introduced the topic, and Michael was doing a shit ton of things wrong right now, but he stuck by his question. He wanted to know. He was Luke’s friend, he was allowed to ask.

Luke tapped his spoon on the edge of his bowl and spoke hesitantly, quietly, as if he really didn’t want to. “I think I told you, didn’t I?”

That one night last week, Luke had told Michael that both of his brothers were both highly successful entrepreneurs and lawyers, respectively, and had said a few words about his parents, all vague and clipped. He hadn’t told Michael their names. It should have been fine - it really shouldn’t have bothered Michael, and it was none of his business - but it felt like his business sometimes. He wanted to know Luke. He wanted to understand why Luke did the things he did. 

Michael shrugged. “Yeah, kind of. I get that Ben’s a dick, but- I mean, the rest of your family, I don’t know anyth-”

“Why do you want to know?” Luke deadpanned.

Michael’s heart seized, as if electrocuted. Luke was doing that  _ thing _ again, that weird defensive thing that he’d done when he talked to Ben, voice flat and eyes dim. “There!” Michael exclaimed. “You just- why do you do that? With your voice, when-”

“What.” Luke said, tone sharp.

It felt like sand was falling out from between Michael’s fingers. Luke had his arms crossed, and his blue eyes were piercing, but not in that painfully attractive way they usually were. Michael pressed his lips together and faltered. “Okay, nevermind, then, I just thought I’d… ask. Because I’d like to-” he waved his hand in the air, fruitlessly- “get to know you better. Whatever.”

Yeah, maybe the  _ whatever _ tacked onto the end was overkill.

“I tell you things,” Luke said stiffly. 

“Only at night,” Michael interjected. He knew they both could tell there was a pattern. What was it about the night that made it so easy to tell secrets? 

Luke went back to his cereal for a bite. Michael watched him. This certainly was a new form of adrenaline, fighting with Luke, and Michael could tell it was definitely the bad kind, but right now he drank it down like a man dying of thirst. 

“Why do you only talk about things at night?” Michael pushed. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then decided to speak anyways, damn the consequences. “And you only hold my hand at night. And you-”

“Michael.”

“I’m not kidding, you know? I just think it’s weird that-” he struggled to find the words- “I don’t know. When you’re- when it’s just us on the roof, I start to think…” Wisely, he cut himself off. Then his impulse grabbed him by the collar once again, frustration audibly tinting the edges of his voice. “I start to think we’re more than just… you know, but then I wake up every morning at it’s like you were a different person-”

Luke’s wide-eyed stare shut him up for good. He felt the words start to burn at the back of his throat, and he itched to take some of them back.  _ More than, you know. More than friends. _

Luke opened his mouth, then deliberated over his words. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, but his eyes were dull and impersonal. Under his breath, he said something that sounded like, “Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that,” before standing up abruptly. Michael sat back, not knowing if he’d heard Luke correctly. Luke turned away and took his bowl to the sink without a backwards glance. 

Shouldn’t have done what? Let Michael get close at night? Keep his distance during the day? They weren’t more than friends, not now, especially not now, when Michael had started a pointless argument about Luke’s willingness to share. The air was thick between them and Michael was slipping farther and farther into remorse the longer he dwelled on it.

“Luke,” Michael called, obstinately, hoping the desperation he felt didn’t seep out into his voice, wishing he’d had the capacity to shut his fucking mouth before he said things.

Luke didn’t immediately respond. He stopped what he was doing at the sink, and Michael watched him lean his hands against the counter. Michael wanted to escape; he didn’t care to partake in this argument anymore; but he couldn’t leave. “Luke,” he persisted.

Luke drew in a long breath and ran his hands through his hair. Michael watched his golden curls glide between his fingers, then fall back into place, rumpled. Luke turned around. “Hey, Michael,” he said, a very uncertain twist to his lips. “What do you mean?”

Michael found that he was standing, too, but he couldn’t remember when that had happened. “What?”

“What did you mean when you said.” Luke spoke fast, but he enunciated every word, until he stopped abruptly. He picked up his phone and checked it. His eyes were still shuttered, his expression closed off, the walls Michael had picked apart over the last week now built up again. Luke put his phone down. “My shift starts soon,” he said, stiffly.

“What time is it?”

“I have to go.”

“Luke!” A cold, hard feeling enveloped Michael’s chest. So Luke had understood, then. Luke realized what Michael was implying, and this was a rejection of sorts. And now he was leaving.

“Yeah?”

Michael fumbled for words. “I didn’t mean it.”

Confusion creased Luke’s brow. “No, I understand.”

_ What? _

Michael squinted at him, dumbly, completely unsure of what to think or say or do. Conflict management: definitely not one of Michael’s skills. 

“And I’m sorry,” Luke said, hurriedly. Michael’s pulse felt sluggish. “I’ll see you when I get back, yeah?”

Michael opened his mouth and closed it. He watched Luke pull on his leather jacket - his heart smarted at the sight of it, recalling every time he’d admired Luke in it before - and pick up the keys from the counter.  _ No, _ his mind demanded.  _ Don’t fucking let him leave. Don’t fucking- _

Under the apologetic flash of Luke’s blue, blue eyes, seconds before disappearing behind the door, he nodded mutely.

The door clicked shut, and Michael’s hands flew to his face, pressing over his eyes. Just like that, he thought, dimly. One stupid fucking mistake, and it was all over. 

\---

This was the longest day of Michael’s life. Luke would be back at ten thirty, probably. Until then, Michael’s urge to curse would be the only thing reminding him the world was still turning. No. Bad thought. Luke wasn’t his world - he couldn’t be dependent on a man he’d met a week ago, that was so fucked up. 

“That’s so fucked up,” Michael whispered to himself, lying curled up on the end of Luke’s bed. 

The bedroom door and window were closed, giving Michael the impression he was in some sort of timeless, frozen trance, nothing but moving but dust particles and the small rise and fall of his chest. The cloudy weather had continued through the afternoon, and only dim sunlight made its way into the room. The guitar propped up against the wall made for a bittersweet reminder.

Shut up! Shut up! Michael dragged his hands through his hair. He was so fucking tired of going back and forth with himself between self-pity and self-hatred. Luke, Luke, Luke. And stop being so fucking dramatic! And shut up! And forget about it! Because it doesn’t fucking matter anymore! No, it mattered, it mattered a lot to him. He couldn’t think about anything but Luke. But realizing that wasn’t going to help him at all - it wouldn’t stop the cold twisting of his heart in his chest, and it wasn’t going to miraculously clear up what he’d said to Luke, what he’d admitted. So just- just shut up, for fuck’s sake!

Michael dug his fingers into his temples. He ached for the music on Luke’s phone; he needed to close his eyes and zone out to some sad, grimy Nirvana songs, something to pull him out of his own skull. Every time he had a coherent and logical thought it was forgotten almost instantly. He’d come into Luke’s room hoping he’d avoid that, maybe clear his head a bit, but it wasn’t working at all.

Luke apologized because he didn’t feel the same. Michael wasn’t even bothered by the apology - the fact Luke said sorry didn’t make him angry anymore, just a little frustrated, because not everything was his fault. This wasn’t his fault. It was Michael’s, for letting himself get so carried away with his feelings. Why would Luke be into someone like Michael, anyway?

With grim resolution, Michael allowed his mind to wander to topics he’d previously managed to stay away from. His train of thought slid seamlessly over into the realm of the kitchen. Specifically the kitchen sink. Under the kitchen sink. Behind the garbage can. 

It had been so long since Michael had felt anything that could measure up to the flood of emotions he was fighting now. Perhaps if he’d had a tolerance for this kind of thing he’d be less affected by it. Now, clutching the slippery handholds of stability, he was burning up with an all-consuming fire of  _ too much.  _ There was too much regret coursing through his veins. There was too much anxiety filling his nerves. There was too much hurt pounding inside his skull, and even if he knew it wasn’t fair, he still felt it. There was nothing he could do.

Please, he implored himself. Please be an adult about this. Please grow up.

But Michael hadn’t grown up, had he? He clocked out of the real world at seventeen, and he hadn’t looked back. He had dropped out of highschool and he had been stuck between worlds and jobs and houses and lives ever since. 

Michael put the knuckle of his index finger between his teeth and bit down.  _ Grow. Up. _ It wasn’t that hard. Realize the impacts of actions taken, account for them, and take responsibility. It couldn’t possibly be that hard. He’d made it nine, ten days- no, it had been almost a whole two weeks since he’d taken a drink. Good. That was the most progress he’d ever made in his entire life. He couldn’t throw it away, not even over Luke. What did he mean, not even over Luke? He was reasonable. He could stop himself from succumbing to his impulses. He wasn’t going to drop everything over a man who’d just barely rejected him in the kindest manner possible. 

He took a long, deep breath, and switched fingers, his index marred with red indents. He was being ridiculous. He wasn’t going to break - not over this. Everything would be fine.

_ I’ll see you when I get back, yeah? _

Michael felt a hysterical laugh bubble in his throat, tight, painful, pitiful. He tucked his hands between his curled-up legs and ground his teeth together instead, eyes shut tight. If he tried hard enough, he could feel Luke’s arms around him, warm, imagine the smell of Luke’s hair, Luke’s cologne, the solidness of his body.

That was not helping, he shouted, internally. Not fucking helping at all.

_ Don’t be fucking sad! _ He was still Luke’s friend! This wouldn’t change that! It wouldn’t change anything!

Yes. it would.  _ I shouldn’t have done that,  _ Luke had said. Be close to Michael at night. He wasn’t going to do that anymore. It was just confusing Michael too much, and Luke went ahead and expressed that he regretted getting close to Michael. 

Oh, man, Michael needed some fucking therapy. He wasn’t going to lie to himself. He was totally and absolutely fucked up.

Maybe life actually was shit. Michael had gone and fucked up the one thing in his life that made him happy, and he felt like he was back at square one, the night after he’d left home at seventeen. The turmoil, the adrenaline, the fear. It was all back, and he had the same urges he’d had then - drink it away. Everything was so much softer and pleasant with alcohol. Edges smoothed out, lines between truths and lies blurred, and the sluggish pulse of his thoughts much easier to handle.

So really, what was stopping him?

  
  


**23**

_Down my throat and made a home in my veins_

It was dark, and raining, and Michael didn’t remember how long it had been that way. He had no fucking clue what time it was. Gentle, familiar warmth slid through his veins; it was like being embraced by a long-lost friend. 

Humming, swinging an almost-empty bottle between his fingers, Michael contemplated running away. He knew it was far-fetched. He had carved out a life here, in Redfern, and it would be stupid to drop everything and leave now. Still, he entertained the notion - the idea he could go far away, to a place where no one would recognize him, had always been attractive to him. MIchael always did love the thrill of novelty.

But he’d spent almost a year in Redfern. He knew Eastbound on Wells street would take him closer to where his ex-girlfriend used to live, farther North would lead him to the rehab clinic he’d finally settled down at (if only for nights at a time), and South down Regent would bring him back to the shitty rehab clinic he never wanted to go back to. Then there were the familiar sidestreets, cutaways, places to hop the fence around that football field near the warehouse, and strange little spots near the train tracks to hide from the rest of the world. And, of course, Luke’s apartment. He wasn’t going to leave it all behind.

His feet wore an unhurried pace into the concrete of the sidewalk. He’d been walking around for a while. He was cold, but not uncomfortably so; the contents of the bottle he’d taken from under the sink were keeping him warm, and the hood of his ratty windbreaker was up to keep out the rain. At the moment, his destination was one of those places he didn’t want to leave behind: a metal beam under the Lawson bridge over the railroad. 

Michael knew his memories were all kinds of disfigured and fucked up by alcohol, but he did have a couple specific ones attached to this place. One of them was that he always came here alone. The other came in the form of the graffiti written on the underside of the bridge:  _ Suicide city. _

Because, after all, this was one of those spots. It’s where someone would go if they wanted to die. The trains were running by below; all someone would have to do was climb farther out, over the tracks, and fall. Maybe that was what drew Michael to this place, now. He couldn’t go onto the roof of Luke’s apartment building - too many nights spent up there with the person he was trying not to think about - but this, here, carried the same edge of danger. He hadn’t realized that at the time. This place hadn’t crossed his mind in weeks.

Michael tried not to think. Thinking was proven to make everything feel worse. It wasn’t that hard to let his mind wander into a fuzzy calm haze, so he did, breathing in the smell of rust and metal and smoke, back against a vertical spar, legs stretched out along the beam. Up here, he was hidden from everything. 

Tilting his head back at the rumble of cars and the thrum of rain above, Michael read the graffiti again. The only thing that was real was the rapid movement of trains below, the whistle of brakes, the screech of metal on metal.  _ Suicide city. _ He wondered how many other people had sat up on this beam and read those words. 

Maybe if Michael hadn’t been afraid of the afterlife, he’d have killed himself years ago. 

But the threat of death was something he was not yet accustomed to, and he was not soothed by its presence. He looked away from the graffiti. He knew he didn’t want to die; he wanted to live. More than anything, he wanted to live.

Well, he’d done a real good job of fucking that up, didn’t he? He’d slipped up and gotten drunk again. His progress vaporized. He was a failure.

Michael let the thought slide from his head like something waxy, oily, unpleasant, pushing it to the side without looking at it. It was replaced by calm, sluggish, hazy fuzz. Stable. Normal. Familiar. Content.

To wake up and feel like everything was going to be okay. That’s all Michael wanted.

Luke.

_ That, too. _

Michael was not a sad drunk - had he been, he would not have lasted long. He was a happy drunk; reckless, dopey, up to do anything. It was a mindset he needed to put himself into to stave off the anger, the regret, and the hopeless void. So he was not going to be sad thinking about Luke right now. 

Alone, the vibrations of cars above travelling down to shake the metal beams, Michael felt nothing. The fog of alcohol had slowed his anxious thoughts, but he was left with smoke and static clouding his brain instead. It wasn’t bad, per se, but it wasn’t good, either. 

Luke. Luke might be off his shift now. It could be any time of night, for all Michael knew. All he did know was that the bottle was empty, and he was certainly, absolutely, completely drunk. It made him laugh to realize his tolerance was down this low again. He wondered if Luke was walking home from work in this downpour, if the leather jacket he’d taken with him was soaking wet. Maybe he’d be in the apartment, relieved to see Michael gone. Maybe he’d be sleeping. Or he could be on the roof, sitting against the ledge like usual, cupping a hand over a cigarre-

Michael’s hand fumbled on the top of his bottle and it fell. A split-second later, he heard it shatter on the rocky slope below, heard the glass scatter over the concrete platform of the train tracks, and he felt his heartbeat pulsing in his throat.

Oh, Luke. 

Michael was forgetting his promise. That stupid fucking promise that they’d spent a week and a half keeping without incident. He said he’d help Luke get better. He swore he’d help Luke get better. 

But Luke didn’t like him anymore. Blurry thoughts scattered in Michael’s brain. He didn’t know if he would be able to stand up and walk straight, not after all this. He’d probably just fucking die or something, out on the streets, one of these nights. 

Luke was out there. And Michael knew, he remembered, how he felt when Luke was around him, when Luke was touching him, smiling at him. But Luke didn’t like him anymore, right? He still owed that promise. Still owed that promise. Luke was his  _ friend. _ Had been his  _ friend. _ Were they still friends? He wanted to hold Luke until the Earth fell into the sun and everything burned. He wanted to hold Luke’s hand and feel the blinding rush of adrenaline and happiness and excitement. He wanted to live.

Michael cursed when he slid across the beam, clumsily, heading for solid ground. He landed on his hands and knees, feeling too woozy to stand, and the palm of his hand burned. He squinted at it in the dark. The lights on the train tracks cast enough light to make out the cut, and he cursed again, louder. He’d torn the skin on his hand on a rock. 

The rain made his palm sting when he got out from under the bridge. He held his hand up, fingers trembling. There was something mesmerizing, Michael thought, about rain; how it mixed so easily with his blood, trailing dark lines over his skin, and fell to the ground in black drops. His heart was scarred from claw marks and strangers and the silver blade of the crescent moon. 

On his feet again, Michael moved to the street. His hood was down, he’d forgotten about it, but it was too late to fix that now. Water flattened his hair and dripped into his eyes. Concentration was impossible to come by - what was he doing? He was finding Luke, and he was going to make sure he was okay, and then what? Would he talk to Luke about what he felt? He had to. He had to, because if he didn’t, he was going to combust. But that was the worst idea, because Luke had already turned him down. Why the fuck would he even try to talk about it, what the hell, he was always bound to lose the things he liked most - like Calum from Year 7, all that time ago. He had been Michael’s best friend. Now, Luke was - and actually had been something a little more - but it was the same fucking issue. 

Michael made his way slowly towards Wells street. He didn’t have anywhere else to go. He needed to see Luke.

But of course he wouldn’t make it. He didn’t know exactly how far away he was when he finally slumped over, stomach roiling, and slouched against a parking meter, vomit rising in his throat. He did throw up. Twice. With any luck, he’d be close to a storm drain, and it would be gone the next morning. 

Were his ears ringing or was that the rain? He’d drank too much, and the pleasant intoxication he’d been feeling before was gone. Now he had a splitting headache, and when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he saw he was shaking with cold. It was cold out. He hadn’t realized.

Eyes screwed shut, Michael slid to the ground. He thought he heard a car approaching, but he didn’t care. 

A noise, a voice, from a distance. What was it saying? 

“Hey? Hey? Hey!”

“I don’t talk to the cops,” Michael mumbled, barely moving his lips.

“Michael!” The voice was clearer, right in front of him now. Okay. Not the cops. He groaned and forced his eyes open. 

As he blinked the rain from his eyes, the stranger in front of him reached out and touched his arms, then shoulders, then the sides of his face, hands wet and slippery on his cheekbones and against his hair. And, as Michael’s eyes focused, drawing yellow glow from the nearby streetlights, he recognized the stranger. Golden blond curls, dripping with rain, wide blue eyes. It was Luke.

“Luke,” Michael choked out.

Luke’s fingers stilled on the sides of Michael’s face. Michael leaned his cheek into one of Luke’s hands, feeling the warmth, remembering the smell of his skin, the fine bones in his fingers, the bitten nails. 

Then, Luke’s distressed voice, close to his ear, urged, “Michael. Come on, come on. I don’t have a car, Michael, I can’t take you to the hospital, I can’t-”

Michael put all his willpower into lifting his hand. He patted Luke’s shoulder, once, trying to be reassuring. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I threw all of it up.”

“Oh god,  _ Michael, _ ” Luke said, feverishly, panicked. “Okay. Okay. Okay, I’ll take you home. I’ll do that, then.”

Michael’s body was limp, but Luke still managed to pull Michael against his chest. His grip was remorseless. He hugged Michael’s body to his own, one arm tight around his ribs, and the other angled upwards, hand at the back of his skull. Luke’s fingers dug into his hair with a frantic desperation. 

Suddenly anxious to explain himself, Michael started talking, stumbling over every other word. “It was just a slip. It’s not- it’s not a big deal. Just a slip. Okay? I swear, it was-”

“Michael, shut up,” Luke whispered in his ear. “Can you stand?”   
  


A breathy laugh escaped Michael’s throat, and he dug his chin into Luke’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “Fuck, I have to?”

“Come on,” Luke grunted, pulling Michael into a standing position, arranging his body over his feet, giving him the opportunity to support his own weight. “Yes, you do.”

“You’re tall, just carry me.” He felt like his voice was getting quieter, calmer. Luke didn’t smell like smoke. Everything would be okay.

“You’re tall too,” Luke countered. “Please stand up. I’ll help you walk.”

Michael sighed. “Pushy.” Still, he did as he was told and straightened. He leaned most of his weight against Luke, wrapping an arm around his waist for support. Luke smelled like Luke; Michael could pick out the scent of his cologne, his shampoo, and the faint trace of his leather jacket. 

Thinking was too hard, so Michael didn’t think. He put one foot in front of the other. He held onto Luke because he was the only thing left in the world.

\---

Michael’s eyes hurt. He kept them closed. The journey up the stairs had been the most grueling part - he wasn’t weak, exactly, but he was dizzy and disoriented, and he’d almost pulled Luke off his feet more than once. 

Michael realized he had to piss as soon as he got into the apartment, so he broke free from Luke with a muttered explanation and locked the bathroom door behind him. Then he slumped down on the toilet with his face in his hands. He had fucked up. He had really fucked up a lot of progress, and he’d pushed undeserved responsibility on Luke. 

Like the rest of his thoughts, the notion slid away as fast as it had appeared. Michael felt like he was going to pass out, but he was aware enough to know it wasn’t going to happen in the next few minutes. He could brush his teeth. Dry his hair. Take this soaking jacket off and hang it up somewhere. But he was so, so tired. Still. His mouth tasted awful, and the sour burn of vodka and stomach acid itched at the back of his throat. It took less than a minute to brush his teeth with his eyes closed and drink water from the bathroom sink. It made his mouth taste like blood, because he’d forgotten he had a cut on his hand. He dabbed at the cut with a piece of toilet paper until it stopped bleeding.

Luke was waiting right outside, worry written plain over his face. “Are you okay?” He asked. He reached out to steady Michael.

“Are you mad at me?” Michael mumbled. He didn’t want to look at Luke’s eyes and see the judgement in them. He stared at his feet instead.

“No, I’m-” Luke stopped, sounding surprised. “No- I was gonna ask the same to you.”

“Why the fuck.” Michael had no reason to be angry at him. 

Luke shrugged, but the anxious expression on his face didn’t shift. “Nevermind. Okay.” 

Michael slid his jacket off and let it drop to the floor. He made no move to pick it up. His shoes were already off, somewhere near the door - he was drifting, he couldn’t remember exactly where the door was, couldn’t quite feel the kitchen tiles under his feet. He stepped forward and fell against Luke and he could feel things again.

“Woah, fuck,” Luke cursed, supporting Michael’s weight. “What-”

“I’m gonna pass out,” Michael whispered. He wrapped his arms around Luke’s midsection.

“Alright.” Luke started moving him towards the couch. Michael stood his ground and shook his head, hair wet against Luke’s collar. No, not the couch. He couldn’t let go of Luke. He would die before letting go of Luke. 

Luke paused. He slid one of his hands off of Michael’s back and raised it to Michael’s face, pushing his fingers under Michael’s chin, softly, gently, like they had all the time in the world. Michael was forced to look up and meet Luke’s eyes. He didn’t know what to think about the distress and the compassion and the pinched concern he saw in them - he averted his gaze as soon as possible, concentrating instead on Luke’s hand against his face. Luke brushed his hair off his forehead, and Michael closed his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Luke murmured, so quiet that Michael wasn’t sure if he’d hallucinated it or not. And then Luke was leading him towards his bedroom. 

Michael used the last of his strength to pull Luke down on the covers with him, keeping a death grip on the back of Luke’s shirt. He’d ditched the leather jacket at some point, and his shirt was dry, but his hair was still dripping. It was dark. Michael felt like a wraith. Luke’s breathing was close. Luke’s body was close. Michael pulled himself even closer, until he felt Luke’s chest against his forehead, and slipped into unconsciousness.

  
  


**23**

_Too young, too dumb, to know things like love_

Michael didn’t anticipate having to wake up, so when he did, he felt like he was in a dream. In a way he was - where else would he have the opportunity to wake up in Luke’s bed? 

The real world came to him in pieces. First it was the aching of his head, then the soreness in his legs, then the bite of pain from his cut hand. Because- right- he’d fallen on rocks yesterday. He knew that much. He had been under that graffiti,  _ suicide city, _ under the Lawson bridge, and he’d jumped down in the pouring rain. And then what? Then he’d gone off to find Luke. The next piece of reality slipped into his awareness - a warm body near him. So he’d found Luke.

Eyes flickering open, Michael braced against the bolt of pain in his retinas than came with the morning sunlight. He squinted, moved his hand, and felt Luke’s wrist between his fingers. Luke was lying on his back beside him. Michael shifted his head - he nudged against Luke’s shoulder by accident, then lifted himself up, slightly, to see better. Luke was awake. His blue eyes, filled with reserve and some form of inexplicable softness, met Michael’s gaze. It was too much for Michael right now. He shut his eyes again and held Luke’s wrist tighter, curling his other hand around Luke’s forearm. Good. This was nice. Or it would be nice, if he didn’t feel so fucking terrible and sick to his stomach, if he hadn’t been nursing a pulsing headache. And it didn’t stop with the physical - there was something else twisting his heart, something that he really, really didn’t want to take a closer look at. 

Luke jarred him out of his foggy haze with an almost inaudible whisper. “Hey.”

Michael screwed his eyes shut tighter.

“Do you want a tylenol?”

The pain in Michael’s skull surged, and Michael groaned. He hummed, once, hoping it sufficed as an answer. 

Luke moved away from him, taking his arm out of Michael’s grasp, and stood up. The sudden lack of Luke’s nearness made Michael feel cold - not exactly temperature-wise - and Michael wished Luke had stayed instead. When Luke’s footsteps faded out of the room, Michael reached over to touch the side of the bed Luke had vacated, searching for heat. 

Luke hadn’t been as close to Michael as he could have been. Of course that’s what Michael’s mind managed to stick onto - the fact Luke was keeping his distance. It reminded him unkindly of their conversation yesterday. They'd been closer before; many nights on the roof, they’d spent hours curled up together. It made something sad and ugly rear its head in Michael’s chest. Fuck. Luke didn’t want to be close to him anymore. Luke didn’t like him that way. This was really, really fucking messy, and Michael didn’t know how he was meant to act. But they were grown adults - it should be fine, they could get past this. 

As if emotional turmoil was causing him physical strife, Michael pressed his hands over his face, keeping out the light and the pain and all of the things he didn’t want to look at or think about. He was going to have to face it eventually. He’d have to figure out what he was going to do about his alcoholism, too. Everything had collapsed around him yesterday. He also had to apologize to Luke, for fucking everything up. Michael wanted to run away and never have to take responsibility for anything ever again.

Feeling like he there was a massive weight on his chest, Michael realized that his two weeks were almost over. Luke would be able to pay rent on the apartment by himself on Saturday - the end of the month - and Michael would have to figure out what he was going to next. 

“Here.” Luke was still speaking gently, and Michael was grateful. 

Michael rolled onto his back and made himself sit up. Luke was holding a pill and a glass of water, and when Michael took them both, he sat down on the edge of his bed beside Michael’s legs. 

“Thanks,” Michael said, quietly. 

“No problem.”

They sat for a minute or two in silence. Michael’s head was a whirlwind. It felt like the hangover ache was lessening, but the tylenol wouldn’t have had the time to work yet, so maybe he was imagining things. 

Okay, so the first plan of action was to apologize. He could do that. 

“Luke,” he started. Luke flickered his gaze towards Michael, but Michael was not quite up to looking into Luke’s eyes for this, so he watched his hands instead. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I should have been there.”

The words sounded sure, like Luke had figured them out beforehand. The certainty in them made Michael blink. 

“Oh, that wasn’t- it’s not your fault. And I was also talking about-”

No, he actually couldn’t do that, he couldn’t go that far. Fuck him. He wasn’t going to bring up yesterday’s conversation again. “Nevermind.”

Like squinted at him for a second, then took the glass of water back. His fingers brushed Michael’s, and Michael suppressed a shiver. Apparently sleeping in Luke’s bed - and with him, as far as Michael could tell - hadn’t cured his body’s inexplicable physical  _ Luke _ reactions.

Michael cleared his throat, and instead asked, “What time is it?”

“Quarter past twelve.” Luke said it with grimness. It was definitely grim; they both had a work shift starting in just over an hour.

Michael groaned and ran his hands over his face. “Oh, fuck.”

A few heartbeats of silence, then Luke turned to him. “Are you okay? Do you feel okay?”

It was hard to look into Luke’s wide, careful blue eyes, but he managed. Michael shrugged. Did he feel okay? Well, not really, he felt like absolute shit, but he could tell Luke wasn’t only talking about physically. Emotionally, he was empty. Or- something. He couldn’t figure it out exactly; it was just an unfortunate mix of stony nothingness and panging desolation, with the nihilistic part of his psyche watching with entertainment; because even his misfortune was kind of funny to him. Of course he’d end up like this. Of course his own fucking mind and body would betray him into developing feelings for Luke, and of course it would go downhill.

Luke looked like he wanted to push harder, say more, but he didn’t. He stood up and reached over to touch Michael’s shoulder, but aborted the movement before it could go farther. Michael felt hollowness in his chest.

“Luke?” He called. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I borrow your phone?”

Luke blinked at the request, then took it out of his pocket and handed it over without second thought. Michael smiled wanly. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Luke said, awkwardly, looking over his shoulder once before leaving the room. The bedroom door was open, so there was little privacy, but Michael didn’t mind. He clicked on the phone icon and dialed the only number he’d memorized in his life, and not even intentionally: the Saint Vincent rehabilitation clinic. 

“Hello, this is Saint Vincent Clinic on Cleveland, how may I help you?”

Michael didn’t recognize the voice, but he’d always been woefully unfamiliar with the secretarial staff. It sounded like an old woman. “Uh, hi. This is… a patient.” He turned away from the door so he couldn’t see if Luke was watching him or not. “Could I talk to Ellen? I mean, Doctor Edgecomb?”

“Let me check. Can I have your registered name?”

“Yeah. It’s Clifford. Uh, Michael Clifford.”

“Okay. Thank you, dear. One moment.”

The sound of a mechanical keyboard carried over the phone. “Yes, here you are. Doctor Edgecomb isn’t in right now. Would you like to leave a message for her?”

Michael picked at his jeans. “No, that’s okay. Do you when she’ll be there?”

The woman tutted consideringly on the end of the line. “I believe she’s in this evening.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Michael hung up. Then he fell back against Luke’s bed, heaving a deep breath and covering his eyes. He didn’t fail to realize this was probably the last time he’d be able to lie down on a nice, real bed, for the foreseeable future. And it smelled like Luke.

Tonight, he’d have to call again to talk to Ellen, his rehab therapist. It had been two weeks since he’d seen her - strangely enough, he wanted to talk to her again. Before he’d met Luke, he’d spent months on and off between drunkenness and sobriety, and spent half his time on the streets, half his time in the clinic. He’d been subjected to a lot of rehabilitation therapy - admittedly, he’d really fucking hated it, but he was willing to try again. Maybe it would be different this time. 

Last night, he’d become conscious of a lot of things. How it felt to be sober for two weeks was better than he’d expected. Feeling like he had agenda over himself was neat. And then there were the emotions. He hadn’t known there were so many good things he could feel, and experience, when his head was clear; yeah, there were shitty ones, too, and Michael was no stranger to misfortune, but… he wanted to hold onto the good. He was still young. He could still  _ live, _ fuck it, he could still dig some semblance of worth out of his life, do things he wanted to do, feel happy. He knew the hate and anger wouldn’t leave him entirely. He’d built himself on the pillars of a broken home - the result would be far from perfect.

Something shitty and dark lived in the back of his head. Despite his change, despite his newfound desperation for something better than this, he felt like he was bound by the wrists. The world was not made for people like him.

He wondered if Ellen would be glad to see him again. He wondered if he’d have to explain what had happened to him: the job, the sobriety, and the man he’d fallen for. He pictured the tiny cot in that shared room, and wondered, when he went back, if he’d have another roommate who’d talk in their sleep. Would the wall be painted over again, hiding where Michael once picked away the off-white colour? Would the bathroom window still have that web of shatter lines? It felt like so much had changed for him. The clinic’s walls wouldn’t recognize him now. 

“What happened to your hand?”   
  


Michael’s eyes sprung open. “Huh?”

Luke stood in front of him, looking unsure. He was wearing a hoodie over his t-shirt - Michael was reminded it was kind of cold, actually, in the apartment - and jeans. His golden curls were messy, and there was a contrite twist to his lips. Michael didn’t like it. He wanted Luke to be happy, damn it.

Luke gestured at Michael’s hand, resting on the bed, palm up. Luke’s phone was on his fingers. The cut from last night was in plain sight, so there was no use in hiding it now. 

“I fell on a rock,” Michael explained. He tried not to think about how he was positioned, sprawled on his back on Luke’s bed and looking up at him.

Lukes’ brow furrowed. “Where did you go last night?”

Michael almost told Luke that he didn’t remember. His split-second hesitation would have given him away entirely, though, so he sighed and said, “Under Lawson bridge. I think. At least, when I cut my hand, I was.” He remembered  _ suicide city. _ “I don’t know where else. How’d… where did you find me?” He winced at the end, thinking about how pitiful he must have seemed. Drunk out of his mind and crazy enough to want to sleep in Luke’s bed with him. 

But his mind clung onto something deeper. Luke had found him. Which meant, to some degree, Luke had been  _ looking  _ for him. 

“You were kinda close, actually, on Regent Place. You know, off Lawson.” 

Michael barely contained a despairing laugh. “Oh, you’re fucking kidding. Next to the police station?”

A small smile graced Luke’s lips. “Yeah.”

“Thanks for finding me before the cops did. I have some bad history with them,” he said. Then, seriously, quietly, he added, looking at the ceiling, “And for looking for me. And for everything else.” 

“We’re friends, it’s the least I could do.” Apology flitted across his face. Michael was more awake now, and he realized Luke had been watching him with the same look for however long he’d been awake - searching. Like he was trying to peel back the layers of Michael’s mind and see what was really inside him. Michael smiled, though, as if he hadn’t noticed, and nodded.  _ We’re friends. _ Yes, they were friends. Good.

Michael felt a stone fall in his stomach. Before he had the chance to think, he mumbled, “Can we forget what I said yesterday?”

Luke blinked, then opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but stopped. He reached out his hand for Michael in a silent offer to help him stand up. He was smiling again, and his eyes were warm, and Michael was relieved.

Taking it as a yes, Michael accepted the hand, feeling Luke’s cold fingers grip his wrist, carefully avoiding the cut on his palm. His head pulsed with pain. The warmth of the bed was gone, and Michael suppressed a shiver.

“You cold?”

Michael shrugged. He held Luke’s hand tighter and leaned in towards him. This was fine, right? He lifted his other hand and pushed it through his own hair. Luke’s eyes followed the movement, and Michael felt self-conscious. Jarringly, he realized he didn’t remember what he’d done last night in order to find himself sleeping in Luke’s bed in the morning.

Changing the topic, Michael said, “Why did I wake up in your room?”

Luke’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh. I thought you’d remember.” At Michael’s quizzical look, he continued. “I don’t know. You didn’t want to sleep on the couch. Probably cold, or something.” Yeah, as if Luke didn’t know damn well why Michael wanted to touch him. Still, the innocent and unassuming expression stayed fixed on Luke’s face. 

Luke squeezed his hand. “Okay, we should get going soon. I left breakfast on the table. I need to get changed.”

Michael nodded, and they split ways. 

\---

“Do you wanna talk about relapsing?” Luke said, bluntly, sitting down at the table. 

Michael grimaced. “It was just a slip,” he muttered. He was very glad they hadn’t tried discussing why he’d slipped. He wasn’t ready for that conversation.

Luke let him eat the rest of his breakfast in silence. Michael tried not to look at him, because he was wearing that black button-down shirt again with sleeves rolled up, and it was making Michael feel a bit unhinged. It didn’t help that Michael had actually literally slept in Luke’s bed last night.  _ With him. _ Under different circumstances, Michael would have been over the fucking moon. But he wasn’t. He had a headache and a hangover and a throwaway life, and everything was too broken.

The things he’d been dwelling on in the last twenty-four hours boiled down to two main facts: Luke didn’t like Michael more than a friend (despite the way he used to act on the roof - but perhaps Luke thought it wasn’t  _ real, _ or something, like it didn’t count), and Michael needed to fix himself.

  
  


**24**

_There's room for two, six feet under the stars_

Work passed in a haze. Ashton wasn’t there. He caught himself sending pathetic glances across the kitchen whenever Luke came in, which made him glad Ashton wasn’t around to call him out on it. 

Time ticked closer to ten, and the sky outside dimmed, dimmed, until it was dark again.

“Is it okay if I borrow your phone again?” Michael asked, when he and Luke were in the staff room, preparing to leave for the night. “I have to call my therapist.”

“You have a therapist?” His tone wasn’t judgemental, but he did sound surprised. 

“Yeah, from my rehab program. Why?”

“Oh. Cool.” Luke dug in the pockets of his coat, seeming slightly uncomfortable. “No, it’s nothing, I’ve just. Never had a therapist. In my family…” he trailed off.

Michael paused, curious. Luke talking about his family? Unprompted? “What do you mean?”

Luke shrugged. “It’s taboo. You know - it’s embarrassing, or whatever, ‘cause it shows weakness. That’s what my dad thinks,” he cleared up. “I don’t. But then Ben and Jack took after him, so.”

“Oh.” So Jack was the name of Luke’s other brother.

“I probably need one,” Luke muttered under his breath, turning away from Michael. Michael didn’t think Luke had meant for him to hear that. A second later, Luke handed over his phone and they left the restaurant.

“Hello, this is Saint Vincent Clinic on Cleveland,” Introduced the voice. “How may I help you?”

Michael let his gaze drift up, towards the streetlights, falling into step with Luke. He brushed away the slight discomfort that came with having a personal phone call without privacy. Luke was his best friend, it was fine. “Uh, hi, it’s Michael again. Is Doctor Edgecomb…?”

“Good evening, Michael!” So the woman remembered him. “Yes, she’s in. Let me put you on hold for a moment.”

“Sure.”

It turned out Michael didn’t need to worry about privacy, because the hold lasted for as long as it took for them to get back to The Aspect. Right outside the lobby, Ellen picked up, and Michael gestured for Luke to go up to the apartment. To Luke’s worried look, he gave a thumbs up, hoping it conveyed that he wasn’t going to do anything stupid right now. Luke nodded and disappeared into the building.

“Hey, Ellen.”

“Hello, Michael. I was wondering when’d I get the chance to talk to you again.”

Her voice sparked a lot of memories; he remembered sitting in her office with a black eye and a split lip after getting into a fight, and vaguely recalled talking to her when he was drunk out of his mind on whiskey on more than one occasion. He remembered her sharp stares and steady voice. 

“Yeah. Um, I’d come in to see you in person, but I actually-” he glanced up at the apartment building, thinking about Luke. “I’m staying in an apartment. In Redfern. And I uh, I have a job.”

Ellen’s surprised approval on the other end of the line coaxed the rest of the story out of him.

\---

They went up to the roof that night. 

It didn’t feel like every other night, for some reason. Maybe it was the weather; a thunderhead was building over the ocean, and the air was sharp with the possibility of lightning and rain. The scream of train whistles made the static electricity tangible. Then there was the sky, which wasn’t dark enough yet to be night, hovering somewhere around astronomical twilight - the feeble glow of the set sun brightened the western horizon. It felt like the city was holding its breath.

Michael needed to talk to Luke. He’d told Ellen a lot of things - not everything, but close to it. He could only last so long in secrecy when she was asking questions about Luke. It gnawed at him, the fact he’d given up a lot of his personal thoughts, but he couldn’t take them back now. If anything, he should make the most of it, and listen to her advice. 

Michael settled down on the ledge with his feet hanging over open air. Luke shifted behind him. Michael didn’t notice Luke was moving to sit next to him until their shoulders brushed, and he slipped out of his trance to see Luke’s black converse disappear over the ledge. The warmth of Luke’s body felt achingly familiar, and Michael wanted to hold him. Luke’s hair shone platinum over the flipped-up collar of his black leather jacket.

“I thought you were afraid of heights.” 

Luke’s eyes flickered to Michael, and the look on his face was something lost, something sad and lonely and scared. With a bleak half-smile, he nodded.

Michael had no willpower left in his body to stop himself. He reached over and held Luke’s hand, committing everything about it to memory; his cold fingers, calloused fingertips from guitar strings, dry skin that somehow managed to still feel soft. Quietly, he asked, “Is this okay?”

Luke nodded again. Oh, god, fuck, Michael wanted to touch him, he wanted to graze his fingers over Luke’s lips, run his hand through his hair, feel the pulse in his throat. He wanted to wrap his arms around Luke and never, ever let go, even if it started pouring rain, fuck, he’d stay up here all night, all week, if he could hold Luke. He wondered if Luke knew what he was doing to him. Did Luke realize that the leather jacket made him go crazy? That the fact Michael could see part of Luke’s collarbone, and his chest, because he hadn’t fucking changed out of his button-down for work, made Michael lose his mind? 

“Are you okay?” Michael whispered, forcing his mind into silence.

Luke’s voice was low. “No.”

Michael watched a motorcycle roar through the intersection half a block away. “Me neither.”

Michael unlaced their hands and moved his arm around Luke’s shoulders instead. Luke shifted against him, and Michael felt how tightly strung he was, tense with fear. He rubbed his hand along Luke’s upper arm to try and relieve the stress, trying not to pay attention to the muscles under his leather jacket. Again, he asked, “Is this okay?”

“You were right,” Luke murmured, instead of answering. 

“Hm?”

“About sitting up here. I…” 

Michael saw Luke’s gaze flick down to his mouth, and a thrill shot up Michael’s spine. He forced it away, but his heartbeat accelerated regardless. His own eyes darted down to Luke’s lips, and he realized they were close enough that if he concentrated, he could feel Luke’s breath on his face. No, no this was not the advice his therapist had given him - he was supposed to talk to Luke, not do- whatever this was.

Michael didn’t even try to hide how fucking gone he was. He held Luke’s faltering gaze, head swimming with regret and longing, knowing if he leaned forward ten short centimeters he’d be against Luke’s mouth.

Helplessly, voice cracking, Luke said, “You-”

And then he kissed Michael.

Michael’s brain flatlined.

Millimeters away, milliseconds later, Luke whispered against his lips. “I’m sorry.”

Without thinking, Michael kissed him, hard, fast, a little desperately - no, scratch that, a  _ lot _ desperately. He didn’t realize he’d moved until his free hand was sliding into place under Luke’s jaw. The hand that used to be around Luke’s shoulders found its way to the back of Luke’s neck, fingers tangled in his curls, angling Luke’s head, and Luke let out a tiny noise in the back of his throat - fuck-

Kissing Luke was unlike anything Michael was prepared for. Kissing Luke was adrenaline and fire and a savage burning that flooded his body, evaporated his thoughts, melted his bones, electrified every single neuron in his brain until all he could feel was Luke’s lips, his hair, his hands, his jaw, his neck. He tilted his head and reached for more, and Luke let him take it, let Michael’s tongue graze his lower lip, lick into his mouth. 

Seeing stars, Michael pulled away.

Breathing hard, Luke said, “Why’d you stop?”

Michael’s stomach swooped, and he pulled Luke backwards, both of them falling onto the rough tar of the roof. Michael was on his knees instantly, and he took in the sight of Luke on his back, a look of winded surprise on his face, then straddled Luke’s hips.

Fuck every single thought Michael had ever had in the last two days. He forgot everything. Luke’s eyes were black in the darkness, blond curls scattered loose over the rooftop tar, and his lips were parted. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed. Michael cupped his hand behind Luke’s head and leaned down, not all the way, but enough to feel Luke’s hot gasps against his mouth, see Luke’s eyes dilate. 

“Holy fuck, Michael, just kiss me,” Luke breathed.

A bolt of electricity shot through Michael’s spine, and he did. Luke’s lips were warm, slightly dry and cracked, but perfect. And his fucking-  _ sounds, _ they were was downright obscene, his gentle little moans and-  _ what the fuck, _ was that a whine, and Michael couldn’t quite believe this was really happening, but whatever the fuck it was, he didn’t want to stop. Luke’s fingers pushed and pulled at the hair behind his ear, and Michael returned the favour, dragging his hand through Luke’s curls, and was rewarded with a choked gasp- oh, so Luke liked that? Warmth shot straight downwards, unbidden. He pulled again, and Luke groaned, the vibration travelling to Michael’s lips. Michael let out a shaky breath against Luke’s mouth and kissed him, rough, aided by Luke’s hand on the back of his head. This was  _ insane.  _ Michael was insane. He couldn’t stop.

But Luke could, apparently. Luke pushed Michael’s face away, enough to look him in the eyes. After he caught his breath he said, voice soft and unsure, “Michael…”

It brought Michael to his senses, fast. He blinked and rolled off of Luke, retracting his hands, letting his body relax with his back against the roof. As much as he could relax, anyway, with Luke right here and his mind scattered across the world.

A minute in silence passed before Michael couldn’t take it anymore. “Hey.”

“Why’d you kiss-”

“Why did you-”

Luke and Michael cut themselves off when they realized the other person was speaking. Luke turned his head to look at Michael and narrowed his eyes. “You answer first.”

No, because Michael was swimming in a fog of confusion, and he needed to know Luke’s answer or he’d combust. “You kissed me first. You answer.”

Luke sighed. “But you know why.”

“No, I don’t,” Michael said, nonplussed. It was so hard to keep his head straight - he felt like he was disintegrating into ashes, turning into nothing but dust in the Sydney sky. The thunderhead was closer now. It blotted out the stars.

“Remember yesterday?” Luke reminded him. “I… you got, like, angry about how I was acting when we were alone, and up here.”

“No- I mean, yeah,” Michael fumbled with his words. “I was frustrated because I had feelings for you, and I couldn’t tell if you were, I dunno, into dudes, even-”

“What?” 

“What’d you mean, ‘what’,” Michael mumbled. “I basically told you yesterday, didn’t I?”

“You had- No, I thought you wanted me to back off because I was bothering you, or something. Because- because I had a thing for you.”

Michael’s brain had stopped working.  _ I had a thing for you. _ “Are you fucking with me?” Michael blurted out.

“No,” Luke said, vehemently. 

Michael let a frenzied laugh fall from his lips. This wasn’t real. Oh, fuck, this was totally not happening right now, he must have died last night and never woken up, or maybe he was still dreaming. He put his hands over his face. A bit muffled, he explained “I thought I’d accidentally told you I had feelings for you, yesterday, and I thought you’d rejected me.”

“Oh.” Luke said. “Fuck.”

Finally he braved Luke’s gaze, and he found he couldn’t look away. Luke’s open, vulnerable, nervous, careful eyes, pitch-black in the night, trapped him. Weakly, Michael laughed again. “Oh my god. You’re- we’re so fucking stupid.”

The heavy solemness in Luke’s expression faded, replaced by self-conscious affront, a small smile curling his lips. Michael had no fucking idea what to do with himself. Because apparently Luke had feelings for him, too. The glances, the touches, the trust - maybe it had been more obvious than Michael thought it was. Maybe these nights up on the roof had meant something after all. Light-headed, Michael asked, “Can I kiss you again?”

“Wait,” Luke said. “Just- was last night- was that because of-” in a breath, he continued, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

_ Was last night because of the fact I rejected you? _ Michael didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t want to say yes, because it wasn’t Luke’s fault. Awkwardly, Michael started, “Uh-”

“I should’ve  _ told you,  _ fuck-”

“No, it was my fault, okay?” Michael established. “I- I don’t know, I lost my head. But I wasn’t lying when I said it was a slip. It won’t happen again.”

Michael could sense Luke worrying, so he went on, “I called my therapist. Her name’s Ellen. She’s gonna keep me on track, too.”

Luke turned onto his side and trailed his fingers over Michael’s cheek. “Okay.”

Luke’s fingers were lit matches against his skin, and it felt so real, almost enough to convince Michael this was his actual life. Michael closed his eyes and pushed his face into Luke’s hand. Quietly, with a not-very-subtle edge of amusement, Luke asked, “Did you tell Ashley we were dating?”

“Oh, fuck,” Michael groaned. “I forgot about that.”

Luke’s laugh was the sweetest thing Michael had heard in his entire fucking life. “It’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t correct her.”

_ Are we dating? _

Fuck it, they’d figure it out later. Michael wrapped an arm around Luke and pulled him on top of his chest, struggling for breath before Luke brough his knees up to support himself. Luke’s hair fell against Michael’s face, and Michael felt like he was teetering on the edge of how much giddy emotion he could experience. This was amazing. Luke was amazing.

“You’re amazing,” Michael mumbled. Luke kissed him. Michael could feel Luke’s smile against his lips.

Luke hummed and said, “You’re pretty hot, too.”

“I said you were amazing, not hot.” An involuntary grin twisted Michael’s mouth, and Luke bit Michael’s lower lip. Michael made a short noise of protest. “Okay, I take it back. You’re really fucking hot.”

Michael came to the conclusion that making out with Luke was officially his new favourite pastime. He wasn’t thinking about anything except right here, right now. He trusted Luke, and if Luke said he had feelings for Michael as well, then it was true. It was true. It was fucking true. Oh, man. Michael hoped he wasn’t smiling too much into the kiss, making it too sloppy, but that didn’t seem to be a problem; Luke was a literal fucking insane kisser, and the amount of attention he paid to Michael’s mouth was mind-melting. 

It didn’t take long for Michael’s hands, of their own accord, to find the collar of Luke’s shirt. There were already buttons undone, so when his fingers were finding the next one, they brushed against Luke’s chest. Luke drew back, tilting his forehead against Michael’s, and breathed a laugh against his mouth. “Your hands are cold, mate.”

“Wanna roll over?” Michael pursed his definitely red, definitely bruised lips together, feeling how sensitive they were. 

Luke grinned, teeth bright. “Wanna make me?”

Michael felt a hot bubble burst in his chest. He hooked his leg around Luke’s body and flipped them over, settling into place on top of Luke again. Yeah, that was going to make this easier. His fingers found Luke’s shirt buttons again and he undid one, then two, then leaned down to mouth against the base of Luke’s neck, the image of Luke panting with his eyes dark and lidded causing him more strife than he was willing to admit.

“Been wanting to do this for fucking ages,” Michael muttered against Luke’s collarbone. He sucked on a spot closer to his shoulder, pushing back Luke’s shirt to make more room. Luke’s sharp intake of breath when he applied his teeth made Michael feel a surge of pride.

“That long?”

Michael exhaled a laugh. “Um. Yeah, kind of, like, since we met. When did you…”

“Fuck, since we met?” Luke said under his breath. “For me, well. When you lit my cigarette for me last week. Then when you played my guitar, with your fucking tattoos and your earrings- and um, when you look at me sometimes and it’s so- I don’t know, your eyes, your lips-”

Michael groaned and buried his face in Luke’s neck. He smelled really, really fucking good, like that cologne, like rain, like soap, like  _ Luke. _ Michael kissed Luke’s neck to shut him up. Luke couldn’t talk to him like that right now - he was already far too turned on. It worked. Luke trailed off in a gasp, sinking his fingers into Michael’s hair.

Michael wondered if this was too fast. He had half a mind to bring Luke down to their apartment and continue this on Luke’s bed; the other half wanted to stay up here and make out with Luke like they were teenagers, because he didn’t want this to end. He didn’t want to risk jolting himself awake and realizing this was all a dream. 

As if the universe was listening to Michael’s thoughts, the sky cracked open, and it started raining. Hard. Massive drops of water landed on Michael’s back, and he closed his eyes and rolled off of Luke. Luke protested with a whine. “It’s raining.”

Michael laughed. “It’s fucking pouring, Luke.” He kept laughing, not quite knowing why, but completely unable to stop. 

“Aughh, my hair’s getting wet.”

The rain was thundering down on the rooftop, so heavy that the sound was muffling Luke’s voice. Michael sat up, then stood up, and shook his own hair, water running into his eyes, feeling his cheeks hurt with how much he was grinning. 

“Luke!” He yelled, over the pounding of the rain. Luke looked up at him, scowl quickly turning into a smile when he saw Michael’s expression, and raised himself up on his elbows to take his head off the wet roof. “I’m so fucking glad I met you!”   
  


Luke got to his feet and tugged Michael closer to him with the collar of his windbreaker. It was darker now that the city lights were shrouded, and Luke was a shadowy figure in the night. He pulled Michael close to him, lips warm against Michael’s ear, sending shivers down his spine. 

“Me too,” Luke said, voice hardly audible over the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part titles in this act:
> 
> Outer Space/Carry On by 5SOS  
> Waste Love by Machine Gun Kelly (ft. Madison Love)  
> Stay Away From My Friends by Pierce The Veil  
> Ghost of You by 5SOS  
> Six Feet Under The Stars by All Time Low


	6. ACT VI

**25**

_‘Cause hope for me/ Was a place uncharted_

“I don’t want to sleep,” Michael confessed.

They’d come down to the apartment and changed, and all they’d managed to do after that was fall into Luke’s bed. Michael paused before joining him; he wasn’t sure he had been invited, until Luke gave him a very strong look that essentially said  _ get in here _ . Michael was wearing some of Luke’s old pajamas - the pants were too long on him, unsurprisingly. 

“Why not?”

They weren’t making out at the moment, but they had been when Michael got into bed. Michael hadn’t known that ‘horny’ was one of his constant moods now, but that certainly had been a very present emotion in his mind. He’d reached down to try and take off Luke’s shirt, maybe slip his finger under the waistband of Luke’s pants, but Luke caught his hands before they got anywhere; he’d whispered something about how he didn’t want this just to be a one-night stand, and that he didn’t want to fuck it up, so Michael relented and lay down beside him instead. Luke had grabbed Michael’s arm and tucked it over his chest, rolling onto his side so Michael could settle down behind him. 

“It’s stupid. I just don’t want to wake up and realize this was all a dream.”

Luke twined and untwined their fingers, then raised Michael’s to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “It’s not a dream.”

Michael sighed and pressed his forehead against the back of Luke’s neck. It felt like all of this was only just catching up with him; he’d actually  _ kissed _ Luke, actually made out with him on the fucking roof until it was pouring with rain and then some, and now he was lying in bed with him. That was why he didn’t think it was real. Everything was so much, so fast, and Michael was only a helpless - but willing - passenger. 

“That’s what dream-you would say.”

Luke hummed. “How about I tell you something that you don’t know?”

“Okay.” Not a bad idea. Then Michael could ask again when he woke up, be it in this reality or another, and see if his brain made something up or not.

Without ceremony, Luke said, “My middle name is Robert.”

Michael snorted. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Well,” Luke huffed. “What were you expecting?”

Michael’s hand was still close enough to Luke’s lips that he found them again without too much trouble. He ran his index finger along Luke’s lower lip, pulling just enough to ease his mouth open. “Maybe something a bit more…”

Luke’s tongue darted out, and Michael would have jumped if he hadn’t been expecting it to happen. He pushed his finger into Luke’s mouth, trying to quell the heat coiling in his stomach, shifting his hips away from Luke slightly just in case. Luke bit down on his finger, lightly, and hummed, somehow managing to make it sound judgemental. 

Michael smiled, pushing his nose into Luke’s curls. “So you  _ do _ have an oral fixation.”

He could have sworn he felt Luke’s skin flush warm, and then Luke pulled Michael’s hand away from his mouth. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god.”

“No. Fuck.” Luke rubbed at his eyes sheepishly. Michael’s finger was still wet with Luke’s spit, so he touched it to Luke’s neck, drawing swirls until it was dry. To his credit, Luke didn’t try to stop him. Michael thought it was hot. He probably shouldn’t have.

“I fucking knew it.”

Luke groaned, exasperated, and put his hands over his ears. “Go to sleep, Michael.”

\---

Life for Michael didn’t change all that drastically. He and Luke had the same routine, the same work schedule, the same banter - the only difference was now, the just-friendship social barriers had fallen. It was a good thing Luke liked receiving physical affection as much as Michael liked giving it.

When Michael woke up, Luke had still been in bed, and that in itself was almost enough to convince Michael that it wasn’t a dream. Still, when he saw Luke was awake, he immediately asked for Luke’s middle name - just in case - and breathed out a long sigh of relief when it matched. 

In the light of the morning, nerves and anxiety flooded back into Michael’s veins. It was a blend of the fact he was in withdrawal again - which wasn’t quite as bad as the last time - and the horrifying idea of being reliant on somebody else. Michael had tried so fucking long and hard to distance himself from people, from places, from emotions, that now he felt like he was struggling to breathe with a weight on his chest. Too much to think about. Too much responsibility and pressure. This was why, he realized grimly, why he’d never really settled down in the past; nobody had been a strong enough influence on him to pull him into the real world. He’d been drifting for as long as he could remember.

When Michael woke up, asked Luke what his middle name was, and lay back to stare at the ceiling without an expression, Luke wanted to know what was wrong. How was Michael supposed to explain nothing about this felt normal to him? He was a lost cause in this life, and he’d long ago stopped hoping for something better. He was an addict, a reject, a failure, his heart blackened by flames, his mind erratic and astray - he was damned and beyond hope. How was he supposed to explain he didn’t understand why he was allowed a piece of something so perfect? What the fuck had he done to deserve being able to touch, talk to, live with someone like Luke? Michael wasn’t one to dwell on what he thought he deserved. Usually he’d take what he got given, and fuck the consequences. Usually he’d laugh at the misfortunes he was thrown and drink it away, but this wasn’t  _ usually; _ this was different, way different, and he had no roadmap to follow. 

So he’d told Luke, quietly, wondering why it was so hard to get the words out, that he didn’t know what to do. Luke seemed to understand. He’d kissed Michael’s cheek and smiled at him. Michael blinked away stupid fucking tears that threatened to fall, unable to do anything but lie rigid, holding back a choked sob that he couldn’t quite decipher. 

He wasn’t standing on a precipice in the stormy sea anymore. He opened his eyes, and he was on a beach, and the sun was rising. The waves were still oil-black, but he could evade the worst of them.

“Let’s go shopping on Sunday.”

Michael let his gaze focus on Luke, sitting in front of him at the kitchen table. He looked like an angel; his hair was a messy halo, and his blue eyes were bright and dazzling. “Okay.”

Luke grinned at him, lazily, lips curled in a painfully sweet smile that Michael had to look away from, and even then he could have sworn his face was heating up. Insane. He’d never felt like this around anyone else before.

It seemed a miracle that Luke hadn’t been swept up by someone else before Michael arrived. The fact he didn’t seem to know… well, anyone, really, was also odd, and Michael couldn’t help but wonder why that was. Hoping he wasn’t crossing any unforeseen lines, Michael asked, “Do you have any friends?”

“You’re my friend.”

Michael sighed. “Other than me.”

Luke shrugged and picked at his thumbnail. Michael reached across the table to stop him. Luke glanced up. “Not really. Well, not here. I grew up in Annandale, so I know some people there.”

“You didn’t… make new friends here?”

“I’m kind of shit at making friends,” Luke said. His tone was light, though, and he didn’t seem bothered. He was looking at Michael very obviously - his eyes swept Michael’s body, his face, his right arm, the black bands of tattoos on his skin, shamelessly. Michael tried to keep his mind on track by ignoring it.

Michael huffed. “But you talked to me, on the street that night.”

“I guess. I don’t know. I felt like I could talk to you. More than any other person.”

Michael stifled the warm glow in his chest and raised his eyebrows. Flippantly, he asked, “Was it because I’m a fucking wreck?”

Luke laughed and curled his fingers around Michael’s hand on the table. “You’re not a wreck. But yeah, maybe at the start.”

Michael hummed and watched Luke’s face.  _ You’re not a wreck. _ Oh, but he was a wreck, and Luke knew that, if Wednesday night was anything to go by. He was a patchwork diagram of a human and there were some labels he couldn’t read, some too faded to make out, some with letters too small to understand. He was still finding himself. Whatever the fuck that entailed.

And now he was distracted by Luke being distracted. “Are you staring at my tattoos?”

“Hmm. Yeah.”

“Didn’t know you had a thing for that.”

Luke leaned back in his chair and scratched his head with a yawn. “Well. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Get some tattoos, and we’ll find out.”

Luke kicked him under the table, rolling his eyes. “Do you have any more?”

Michael gave him a sly look that quickly turned rueful, and he shook his head. “I don’t. I wanted to get some more, though, sometime. Maybe I’ll get around to it eventually.”

Luke hummed again and nodded. 

\---

The rest of the morning and early afternoon passed in conversation. Luke had a shift today, but it would start and five, so they had time. Michael had to go in to pick up his cheque today, too, but he would go when Luke’s shift was over.

Michael didn’t want to talk about his past relationships all that much, but it came up anyway. He’d found out Luke had a highschool girlfriend and had dated one guy in university for a couple of weeks. Michael felt strangely relieved that he wasn’t going to be Luke’s first - in that sense, at least. He’d told Luke about his exes, bits of what he could remember of them, because Luke seemed keen to learn about his past; it was something Michael didn’t quite understand about him, but if Luke thought it was important, then he’d talk about it. Everything that had happened to him in the past few years seemed like a silhouette on the eastern horizon - it felt close, hovering over his head, but when he turned around to look at it, he couldn’t get his eyes to focus. It felt like background radiation.

When the topic of  _ what next _ arrived, Michael succumbed to the fact he could not run from the future forever. The future was a monster he did not want to fight. It had sharp teeth in unforeseen places, claws always poised to strike, and it never, never died. 

“Uh, I don’t know,” Michael said. There was something he really wanted to ask, something that he was pretty sure he knew the answer to, but he couldn’t deal with not knowing for sure. “Rent is paid on Saturday, right?”

Luke, next to him on the couch, glanced over. “Yeah, or later today. But we’ll get our paycheques today, so we can probably pay tomorrow.”

_ We. _ Michael let out a relieved sigh. “So I’m staying.”

“Oh- yeah, of course.” Luke shot him a lingering stare, brow furrowed in a newfound worry. “Unless you don’t want to?”

As if there was a single thing in the world he wanted more than to live and spend time with Luke. He felt a grin creep onto his face. “I do want to. I do. Fuck. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me!” Luke said, affronted. “You’re paying too, this isn’t charity.”

Michael, already leaning heavily against Luke’s side, turned into him and hugged him. “Still,” he said, quietly. “Thanks.”

He felt Luke’s hand come up behind his head to pet at his hair. Michael, dizzy with Luke’s closeness, let his eyes slip closed, content to let his brain wander off into an unworried haze.

  
  


**26**

_Fixed on a moment just out of focus_

Michael was in withdrawal, and Luke was at work.

Maybe he should have anticipated this more than he did. After all, he did get completely wasted on Wednesday, and it was a little under 48 hours from when that started, so it made sense he’d hit peak withdrawal right now. He hadn’t really been thinking about it until it got bad. He needed to talk to someone. Luke, but Luke was working, so Ellen, but he needed a phone to call her. Payphone? No money. What time was it? He could go down to La Coppola, and borrow Luke’s phone…

It was hard to stand up and walk into the kitchen. He felt like shit. It was even shittier to realize that life was the same as it always was - he still had to fight tooth and nail for everything he wanted. After everything, he still struggled to do basic fucking tasks. 

No keys, but the time was just past nine, so Luke would be off his shift soon anyway, and Michael could still pick up his cheque if he arrived early. He took a tylenol from the bathroom cabinet and left the apartment, burning one destination into his mind and casting away everything else.

The light from the recently-set sun painted the sky in heathered navy. Wisps of clouds turned grey, dimmed into silver-edged black, obscuring swaths of not-yet-visible stars. The breeze carried a distinct chill. It reminded Michael that winter hadn’t ended, even if the sun was setting later and the days were getting warmer. 

Outside the restaurant, Michael stared at the neon  _ open _ sign, the pink light searing through his retinas and imprinting itself on his brain. Static buzzing enveloped his eardrums. Strange paranoia flickered through his veins - what if he went inside, and Luke wouldn’t look at him? What if Luke didn’t want to see him? What if he went to get his cheque and Ashley sent him away? Did he belong here, in Redfern, in La Coppola, with Luke - was he awake? Was he conscious, or was this some dreamscape hellworld, and would anyone recognize him?

Michael blinked and kicked the side of the building. The sharp pain brought him to his senses, fast. Ridiculous. He was being fucking ridiculous. He had to get out of his own head. Nice to fucking see that he was still just as messed up, and two weeks of sobriety hadn’t done shit to help him escape himself.

Luke. Paycheque. Then call Ellen.

Michael wound his way through the tables at the front of the restaurant, pushing his hair back off his forehead in the hopes it would make him look less like he didn’t belong here, and scanned the room for Luke. It didn’t take him long - he’d recognize that striking halo of blond curls anywhere. He met Luke’s gaze and felt immense relief when Luke grinned at him, unable to stop himself from grinning back. It was a good thing that Luke was walking back to the kitchen instead of towards another table, because Michael would have followed him regardless and he wasn’t sure how the customers would react when the waiter’s clingy boyfriend shadowed him around the restaurant. Boyfriend. Was he? He needed to clear that up.

“You’re early,” Luke said. He dumped a stack of plates in the sink. Michael wanted to step closer, but- they hadn’t discussed this. How were they going to act? Was this a relationship? Yeah, but were they… boyfriends? Did they act like that in public? What if Luke only thought of this as friends with benefits, and didn’t want to be seen with Michael? What if-

“Why’re you standing over there? What’s up?”

Luke sounded concerned, and Michael hated the idea of worrying him. “Are we-”

Eyebrows furrowing, Luke looked at him expectantly. Michael decided to jump to the chase. “Are we dating? Officially?”

“Wh- yes- unless you don’t want to?” Luke was biting his lip, and it was kind of cute, but he was obviously troubled. But he’d said yes. That was all Michael needed.

_ “Yes,” _ Michael breathed, relieved. “Yeah. Yes. We’re dating.”

Really fucking smooth. Luke didn’t seem to mind. His face lit up in a dazzling smile, and Michael just about kissed him right then and there - but Luke was at work, and there were quite a few people in eyesight, even if nobody could hear them over the din of the kitchen. So he didn’t. He stepped closer instead, until he could feel Luke’s body heat and smell his cologne. Being within kissing distance of Luke’s neck was reminding him that he hadn’t jerked off in what felt like a week, and that he was a heartbeat away from being turned on. Luke was living proof alcohol couldn’t kill Michael’s sex drive permanently. If anything, he wanted to fuck more than ever, now, to distract himself from the pang of addiction. Maybe that ever-present itch would dissolve if he could just-

Forcefully, Michael reminded himself this was a bad train of thought to be having in a restaurant surrounded by people. Luke was looking at him with barely-partially lidded eyes - Michael could have sworn he was doing it on purpose, just to cause Michael frustration - and a deadly sweet smile.

“Missed you,” Luke whispered. The plates were sitting, forgotten, next to him on the counter, which he was leaning back against ever so slightly. It was almost like he wanted to be made out with in the middle of his workplace. Michael may have harboured a lifelong distaste for following rules, and a passion for breaking them, but he didn’t want to risk this job. Luke was so… Michael glanced around, fast, checking for anyone looking. Nobody was. He leaned forward and pecked Luke on the lips. 

“Missed you too,” he said, barely audible, when he pulled back. He almost didn’t want Luke to hear it. There was too much vulnerability inferred for him to be absolutely comfortable saying it.

Michael glanced around the kitchen again. “Okay, I don’t want you to get in trouble with Ashley, so I’ll go in a minute. I actually came here to ask for your phone. If possible.”

“Oh, not for me?” Luke’s voice was lilting, amused.

“Of course for you too, idiot. But since you can’t stay and talk, I was gonna call Ellen.”

“Who says I can’t stay and talk?”

A sweet flash of warmth flooded Michael’s chest. “Uhh, work does. Come on, don’t do that to me. I hate following rules, so you have to be the responsible one.”

“Okay.” Luke was grinning. “Work. Got it.” He took his phone out of his pocket. “Here. I’ll see you in the staff room at ten?”

Michael nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. Good luck.”

“Bye. You too.” Michael left the kitchen before his heart could convince him to stay. It was nice to see Luke was getting more comfortable in a busy workplace - Michael remembered the first shift he had, where Luke had been dead on his feet afterwards. Exposure. Maybe that kind of thing helped Luke’s social aversion.

Outside the restaurant, Michael stopped to dial. He was put on hold by default, and thought about where he was going to walk. He’d go to the Lawson bridge. He didn’t want to revisit his spot under it; he wanted to walk across it and see what was on the other side.

“Hey, Michael?”

Michael knew that voice. It was Ashton, coming out of the restaurant, his black hair messy and ruffled. “Hey.”

“Congrats, mate. I saw you in there. With Luke.”

Michael laughed nervously. He hadn’t checked well enough when he’d thought nobody was looking. “Um, yeah.”

Ashton’s grin was blinding, even in the glowing streetlights. “I told you he was looking at you too. Awesome that you guys worked it out. Now we can go on double dates.”

Michael blinked. “You’re with someone?” He’d never asked. Maybe he should have.

Ashton scratched the back of his head and barked out a self-conscious laugh. “Uh, no. Not yet. But he’s cute, so I’m hoping so, soon.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. He was ready to give Ashton a taste of his own medicine. “Who’s cute? Do I know him?”

Ashton shook his head. “He’s the uni student I was talking about, my new flatmate. Really smart guy. Goes to Tech, remember? You should meet him sometime.”

“I hope I do,” Michael said with a wicked smile. He was amazed that he’d managed to make sort-of-friends with Ashton. He attributed the achievement to Ashton’s sociability, because despite Michael’s prickly nature, he’d managed to keep talking to him. Michael vowed to make a better effort in the future.

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Ashton said, with good humor. 

He checked the time, and right before he opened his mouth to say goodbye, Michael interjected, “What’s his name?”

Ashton glanced up from his phone. The smile was still on his face. “It’s Calum. I gotta go. See you!”

_ Calum. _ Michael hadn’t heard that name in years. He waved as Ashton turned and went down Redfern street towards the bus station. Calum. He was going to have to shake off the weirdness of Ashton’s flatmate sharing the name of Michael’s long-gone childhood best friend. 

A few pieces of information flickered in his brain. Ashton had said his flatmate was from the US.  _ Calum’s family moved to the US. _ And he was a uni student - so he had to be about the same age as Michael. What if? What if the Calum living in Ashton’s flat was the same Calum that lived in Michael’s memories?

That was a stretch. There were a lot of people named Calum in the world. He shook the thought, but not the idea, from his head. He’d ask Ashton more questions when he went back to work on Sunday.

Right on time, the phone in Michael’s hands bleeped, and the Saint Vincent receptionist came over the line. Michael held it to his ear and started off towards Lawson bridge.

\---

Time went by fast, and Michael let himself be guided towards the restaurant again by memory. He didn’t know exactly what his and Ellen’s phonecalls were for - it wasn’t therapy, really, because Ellen wasn’t doing that analysing thing after he spoke. Mainly they talked about Michael; his years spent on the streets were pockmarked with holes and gaps, things he couldn’t quite remember doing, interspersed with the things he could remember, ranging from foggy to vivid. It was a strange mess of cords and strings that Ellen was helping him untangle. He had a suspicion that all of that was building up towards talking about his childhood, and his teenage years, which was a terrible thought. He didn’t want to unpack that with her. Maybe he would, with time.

“Are you going to call me again tomorrow night?”

Michael considered. “I don’t know, I wasn’t planning on it.”

“I can put you into my schedule, if you want. So I always have time to talk to you. What do you think?”

“Uhm… yeah. Sure.”

A mechanical keyboard clicked away in the background, and Ellen muttered to herself, typing something into a calendar. “You work till ten some nights… which nights?”

Michael went along and fed her the details of his schedule. It would be nice, he supposed, having some structure. He didn’t like being bound by it. In the back of his head, though, he knew he technically wouldn’t have to call if he didn’t want to. That, at least, made it easier for him to agree.

“Thank you.”

“No problem, Michael. You can come around anytime, too. I’m in on all days of the week except Saturday and Monday.”

The lights of the busier Redfern Street came into view, and Michael waited at a crosswalk. “Okay.”

“Goodnight.”

The line disconnected. Michael put Luke’s phone into his pocket and continued down the street, towards La Coppola, ignoring the faint trembling of his hands. It would pass. So would the paranoia, the cold sweat, the darting eyes, and most of the anxiety. After that, he would have depression to look forward to. Fantastic. Michael couldn’t wait.

Inside the restaurant, Michael found Luke in the staff room, picked up his cheque from Ashley’s desk setup, and minutes later was back outside. He hoped it hadn’t been too obvious that he was twitchy when he’d talked to Ashley. He knew Luke noticed, but Ashley didn’t know him as well.

“How was your call?” Luke asked, winding his fingers through Michael’s as they set off towards their apartment. 

“Good, I guess.”

Luke glanced at him. Michael explained further. “It was nice. I’m not sure if it’s therapy or not - whatever it is, I’m not paying for it - but yeah, either way, it’s nice. I kind of made plans to call her every other night. If it’s okay for me to use your phone.”

“‘Course, mate. It’s basically your phone now too.”

Michael squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Luke.”

Luke smiled at him. “Are you tired?”

“Not really. Actually, I’m kind of… buzzed.” Michael let out a brief laugh, realizing his hand was shaking as it came up to push his hair away from his eyes. “Uhh, you know. Withdrawal.”

He wasn’t really  _ buzzed, _ he was more anxious than buzzed, more fidgety and jittery, more filled with ticking nerves. And he craved a fucking distraction more than anything. Good thing he had one standing right next to him. Bad thing he wasn’t feeling as distracted as he wanted to.

Before Luke had a chance to respond, Michael asked, “You like me, right?”

Luke shot him a puzzled look. “Uh, yeah, I like you.”

“Oh. Good. Thanks.” Some of Michael’s paranoia was calmed by that. After another few seconds of walking in silence, he started again, “so do you  _ like me, _ like me, or do you-”

“Yes, I  _ like you,  _ like you. Why? What’s wrong?”   
  


“Just making sure,” Michael mumbled. He needed to make sure. 

Luke stopped in his tracks and pulled Michael to a stop in front of him. “I like you so much I’m gonna kiss you right now,” he said. “If that’s cool with you?”

Luke’s smile was so pretty, so sweet, and his eyes were so kind and they had a slightly dopey lovelorn look to them, and Michael wasted no time in leaning forward until their lips touched. It was really, really fucking nice. Michael wanted more. 

“Okay, I believe you,” Michael said, when Luke pulled away. Michael suppressed the urge to wrap his arms around Luke. There’d be time for that when they got home - he just had to wait until then.

“Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“After I deposit these cheques, can I take you out for dinner?”

Take him out for dinner. On a date. Because they were dating now, they were boyfriends now, they were together. Oh, wow. 

“Depends where you take me,” Michael said, impishly. “I’m not a fancy-restaurant kind of person.”

Luke laughed. “Yeah, I’ve been to too many fancy restaurants in my life. Don’t worry. Maybe takeout again?”

The mental image of Luke sitting in a first-class restaurant was nearly enough to get Michael to retract his statement. His brain helpfully supplied mental-image-Luke with a white dress shirt, a few silver rings- maybe just a tuxedo, that would be fucking hot. Takeout sounded pretty good though as well, and it was a million times more worth its price. “As long as I can take you out for dinner sometime, too.”

Luke’s grin made Michael’s stomach flip in the best way possible. “Yeah, sounds great.”

  
  


**27**

_So keep talking cause I love to hear your voice_

Luke had some direct deposit app on his phone that he used to cash both of their cheques in the span of a few minutes, sending the money straight to his debit card after the cheques were confirmed. Damn, time really had passed since he’d been privy to anyone cashing cheques around him - he remembered his parents having to go to the bank every time, and he hadn’t thought twice about it. Michael wanted a phone.

“Still not tired?” Luke asked.

“Not at all.”

“Dinner?”

“Let’s go.”

The chinese takeout place was less than an hour from closing when they arrived. It wasn’t busy at all, so the food arrived fast. 

“Where’d you wanna go?”

Michael shrugged. Anywhere, as long as it was with Luke. “Where do  _ you _ want to go?”

Luke considered. “If you want, we could go to- you know where the aquarium is?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“There’s that inlet thing, and a nice bridge? It’s called Darling Harbour, I think. We could go there.”

Michael didn’t mind that it was probably a half an hour walk from Redfern. He’d been there before, once, when his parents took him to see some light show with the fountain array in the water. That was when he’d been thirteen years old. At the time, his parents had likely been meeting with some business agent at one of the popular restaurants on the water, and didn’t want to leave him home alone, because he was getting too old for a babysitter. He remembered sitting on a bench and watching the fountains light up in every colour of the rainbow, again, and again, and again.

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

\---

It was almost midnight when they arrived at Darling Harbour. The fountain light show wasn’t on tonight, but there were still some clusters of people talking and laughing together under the bright lamps of the small marketplace. Many of the restaurants were closed, but the kitchen halogens were still illuminating the interiors. The bridge over the water in front of them was lined with fairy lights, reflecting off the rippling water of the harbour. Tall buildings gleamed on the right side of the inlet - that was the direction of Sydney proper - and every now and then, a red-blinking airplane crossed overhead. 

“Last time I was here was ten years ago, I think.”

“You’ve been here before?” Luke knocked their shoulders together, encouraging Michael to keep talking.

“Yeah,” Michael sighed. “Not really a nice story. Parents dropped me off while they talked business with someone important in one of these restaurants. I remember the light show the most.”

Luke hummed. “I used to come here a lot when I was a kid. Wish I’d been here at the same time as you. We could have met ten years ago.”

A forlorn feeling collected in the seams of Michael’s heart. “You’d have hated me.” He forced a laugh. “I wasn’t a nice kid.”

He had been lonely and angry and mean. At thirteen, he’d seen what he needed to of the world, and he didn’t like it. He hated the kids at his school, and he’d hated his parents, and he’d hated every teacher he’d had, every stranger who’d ever tried to talk to him. Time had mellowed him, he supposed, and alcohol, and the weed the school junkies had sold him when he was fifteen. But thirteen was a hard age for him.

“Hm. I don’t think you’d have liked me, either. I was- weird.”

“Weird in what way?”

“Uh, not a good way,” Luke offered, voice sounding a little hedged. “Crippling self-doubt. Um, constantly in need of approval. I was- yeah, I was pretty annoying.”

Michael glanced at him with a heavy frown. “Shitty childhood too, huh?” Maybe not the most eloquent way of recognizing someone’s grief, but grim acceptance was all Michael knew. Luke didn’t seem to take his words badly, which was a relief.

“Maybe,” Luke muttered. “I dunno. It got better when I got older. I guess I didn’t try as hard to be like my brothers, which I think was the issue.”

Michael nodded, rubbing his thumb along the back of Luke’s hand. Luke started shooting him glances out of the corner of his eye. “What?”

“Do you have any siblings?”

Shaking his head, Michael said, “No. Only child.”

“Why weren’t you a nice kid?”

Michael realized he hadn’t told Luke about his childhood, or his parents, at all. He still felt weird talking about it. He thought about his answer for a while before opening his mouth.

“My parents didn’t really want me, when my mum got pregnant. So that’s kind of where it started.” He hoped Luke wouldn’t press him for more information. He’d never said that out loud before, ever, in his entire life. And now he’d just spoken those words into the outside air, midnight, over the Darling Harbour in Sydney, half an hour from Redfern. They vanished in the night. Michael’s heart twisted and his lungs tightened, and he stared determinedly at the far horizon until he could breathe easy again.

Luke seemed to realize Michael wasn’t going to continue. “I’m sorry,” he said.  _ Sorry. _ Luke was just… like that. He cared. He didn’t need to care about Michael, Michael didn’t deserve someone like Luke to care about him, but Luke did anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Michael mumbled, when he tried and failed to keep talking, because he wanted to, he wanted to give Luke as much as he could, but the words were stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry, too. I’ll tell you. Sometime. I swear I’ll tell you sometime.”

“It’s okay,” Luke said, quietly, close to Michael’s ear. Michael felt his eyes burn, and blinked away the tears before they could form. 

They walked the rest of the way to the bridge in silence. Cold air coming off the water made Michael shift closer to Luke, seeking heat. Luke tucked an arm around Michael’s waist. Michael revelled in the touch until they made it to the bridge and sat down on a bench to eat their takeout. 

A motorboat passed under the bridge, the whirring of its engine combining with the sound of the wind. Michael stared out at the dark water. He felt awake; more awake than he should have, because the grogginess symptom should be kicking in around now, joining forces with the shivers and anxiety. He felt very alert instead. It heightened his sensitivity towards Luke’s movements, which made him slightly more worked up than he should be. When they finished eating, Luke got up to put the boxes in the recycling, and when he sat back down, he put his arm around Michael’s waist to trace patterns against his hip. 

It was dark out, and Michael didn’t hesitate to turn and kiss Luke. He missed Luke’s lips the first time, and, amid hushed laughter, let Luke guide his face to the right spot. Michael’s hands were trembling, so he left them folded in his lap.

“I like it when you touch my hair,” Luke whispered against Michael’s lips. “Can you?”

There was no further incitement needed. Michael lifted his hands - he could  _ feel _ them shake, he knew he wasn’t imagining that - and wound his fingers through Luke’s curls. If he held tight enough, he wouldn’t tremble. And, apparently, if he held tight enough, Luke would make all kinds of tiny sounds against his mouth, tiny gasps, enough to make Michael forget about the fact his hands were shaking in the first place. Michael licked into Luke’s mouth and forgot about the rest of the world.

\---

They were walking back to Redfern in the dead of night, Michael’s heart beating in his ears, and the roar of motors in the far distance assaulting his senses once every few minutes. It felt like the city was empty; like they were the last people alive still walking the streets. He and Luke talked most of the time. Conversation came easy to Michael when it was just them, alone, hidden in their own world. 

When they crossed Lawson bridge, only a couple of minutes from their apartment, Michael started feeling shittier. Time slipped and stalled; minutes warped into moments, hours, seconds, the blink of an eye, and they were back at The Aspect, and Michael didn’t realize they’d made it. No, he realized the lettering over the door spelled the right address, but he didn’t register that it was the destination, and instead kept walking. He knew that convenience store was only a five minute walk from here. He was just going to take a look.

“Michael.” Luke touched his shoulder to stop him. “We’re here.”

“Oh.”

No choice, now. Now he had to go upstairs and fucking waste away while he waited for the inevitable crash of unconciousness. He tried not to crack his knuckles too much - he was afraid Luke would call him out on it and stop him. 

Once the door shut behind them, Michael got in the bathroom to take a shower. Maybe it would calm his shivers.

It did a bit, but it made his cravings even more evident. His mouth was dry, his mind buzzing, and to distract himself from that, he thought about Luke. Bad idea. Now he wanted to jerk off. Very bad idea, because if he did jerk off, he didn’t think he’d be able to stay awake afterwards enough to get himself out of the shower and in bed. He was teetering on the edge of attentiveness. And now he was turned on. Everything sucked.

Out of the shower, Michael took another tylenol and put his clothes back on. He wasn’t going to be able to go to sleep right now, either, so he might as well get dressed.

"Hey, you good?" Luke asked, from the couch.

Michael looked at him, saw the golden curls resting against his cheekbones, sharp line of his nose and jaw, his long fingers around his phone. Michael cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Tired?"

Michael shrugged. His brain was on fire. He took a step towards the couch, then stopped, looked at the door. He turned back to Luke and smiled apologetically. "I'm going to fucking die."

Luke stood up. "Michael-"

Michael closed the distance between them in four steps and raised his shaking hands until they were resting on either side of Luke's face. Luke's wide blue eyes stared back, and he touched Michael's wrists, holding them loosely. "How can I help?" He whispered.

With a sharp giggle, Michael shook his head. Because this wasn't really fair, was it? Still...

"Kiss me?" he asked.

Luke smiled. "No problem."

Luke's mouth was hot, a bit wetter than usual - maybe because Michael's mouth was so dry - and soft. Michael didn't quite know what to do with himself. His breathing came faster, heavier, and Luke's fingers tilted his chin to slant their lips together; Michael pressed closer to Luke, let his hand creep down to the hem of Luke's shirt. His head was spinning. He was pretty sure it was in a good way.

Luke bit his lip, and Michael was definitely sure it was in a good way. He made a choked noise in the back of his throat and pushed Luke backwards, just enough to convey to him that he wanted to move this to the couch. Luke fell back and pulled Michael with him. Without delay, Michael hooked his fingers under Luke's shirt.

"Wait." Luke's hand stopped him. "Are you sure-"

"I'm one hundred percent sober, Luke," Michael said, between breaths. "Do you want to?"

Luke grinned up at him, and Michael felt heat shoot straight to his dick. It was totally not helping that Luke was now touching his hips, drawing small circles, working his shirt up at the same time. "Fuck yeah."

"Take your shirt off, then."

"You too."

Michael tapped Luke's stomach and sat back, straddling his thighs. "You first."

Luke rolled his eyes, but pulled his shirt up over his head anyway. It was dim in the apartment; the only light on was the one over the tiny stove, but it was enough to see Luke's body. Luke twisted to throw his shirt on the floor near the bedroom door. Michael watched his arm flex and couldn't look away. "What the fuck," Michael whispered.

Luke laughed, self-conscious. He scratched at his nose and pushed hair out of his eyes. "Your turn."

"This is going to be underwhelming," Michael grumbled. He took his shirt off, dropped it on the floor, and immediately leaned forward on Luke's chest to kiss him again, not giving him a chance to respond. Luke made a short noise of protest and compromised by running his hands up Michael's back.

Kissing shirtless was something Michael had to do more often. There was so much more to feel - he had one hand in Luke's hair, one hand exploring down Luke's chest - he brushed over Luke's nipple, by accident, but did it again on purpose a second later when he heard Luke's intake of breath. 

Michael drew back and met Luke's gaze. Cheeks tinged pink, pupils wide - Michael was sure he looked the same. He let out a soft laugh and bent down to suck at Luke's neck. 

"Not there," Luke told him. "People will see." 

"So?" 

"I work," Luke said, as if Michael was trying his patience, "At a  _ restaurant _ ." 

"Okay, fine." Michael shifted down farther until he could lick one of Luke's nipples. Luke let out a sound that sounded something like a whine, low in his throat. Michael could not physically stop himself from grinding his hips down, searching for friction, desperate. 

"Bed," Luke panted. 

Michael couldn't agree more. He stood up and swayed on his feet - he'd risen too quickly. Luke got up too. He shot Michael a grin when he found his feet - he had to look down slightly, just an inch or so, to meet Michael’s eyes. "Hey, I'm taller than you." 

"Not if I knock you over." 

Luke propelled him towards his bedroom, rolling his eyes. "Let’s go, come on." 

"Oh I'll come, all right." 

"Shut- Michael, I swear." 

Michael nodded. “Yeah, I swear, too.”

With a drawn-out, exasperated groan, Luke pulled him through the doorway. Giddy shivers swept through Michael’s body - he wasn’t sure if it was the withdrawal, or the slightly too cold air, or Luke, or all three. It was dim in Luke’s bedroom, barely enough light to see by, but he managed not to fall over. Luke’s hand on his arm guided the way.

“You good?”

Michael cracked one of his knuckles, loudly, ignoring the fact his fingers were trembling. “Yeah.”

Luke was lying on his back, and Michael was supporting himself over Luke’s chest with one of his elbows digging into the mattress. Luke pushed him onto his side. Michael let himself fall, let his hands be captured by Luke’s without protest. He couldn’t entirely see Luke’s eyes, but he felt Luke’s gaze nonetheless.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Luke whispered, serious. 

Michael squeezed his eyes shut and tensed his wrists. “I’m in fucking withdrawal.” He hadn’t meant it to sound angry, and it didn’t really, but he winced anyway. 

“How’d you feel?”

MIchael sighed. He was desperate to get back to what they were doing. “I dunno. Like shit. But not right now- you make me feel better.”

Luke held his hands for a second longer, then released them. “Okay.” Then he rolled on top of Michael and kissed him, hard.

Insane. Insane. Michael was losing his mind. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and all he knew was Luke’s lips, Luke’s skin, Luke’s hair against his face, Luke’s hands on either side of his head. He’d been thinking about doing this for fucking  _ weeks. _ And now he was actually doing it, he was actually in bed with Luke, touching him like this, kissing him like this. If he had self-control, maybe he’d stop and contemplate that for a minute, but right now, all he could do was sink one hand into Luke’s hair and let the other one sweep down Luke’s body, drowning in his heat and closeness and scent and sounds. 

He tangled his fingers in Luke’s curls and pulled, levering his face away so he could press his lips under Luke’s ear. Luke gasped.

“You really have a thing for that, don’t you,” Michael muttered.

“I…” Luke trailed off with another sharp intake of breath, another fucking gasp that sent fire to the part of Michael’s anatomy that was currently straining at his pants. The fact he could render Luke speechless was possibly the most gratifying thing he’d felt in his life. He started undoing the button and zipper on Luke’s jeans.

Luke barely helped, instead opting to place butterfly kisses all over Michael’s head and face while he lifted his hips. It was kind of really fucking nice, so Michael didn’t stop him, and when Michael managed to get a hand on his dick, he groaned into Michael’s temple.

“You’re loud,” Michael whispered, kissing the corner of Luke’s mouth. 

Luke let out a breathy laugh. “Well, sorry, I guess- oh, f-”

Luke trailed off again, rutting into Michael’s hand. “No, I like it,” Michael disclosed, hiding a smile against Luke’s lips. Quietly, he added, “god, you’re hot.”

A few moments later, Luke slowed his movements and pulled away from Michael’s lips. “Wait, Michael.”

“Yeah?”

The question was partially answered a second later, when Luke undid Michael’s jeans and pushed them down, then his boxers. Michael bit his lip at the feeling of cool air touching his dick.

“Can I suck you off?”

Michael tilted his head back against the sheets, ears buzzing with incomprehensible, fuzzy delirium.  _ Can I suck you off. _ “Yeah,” he said, breathlessly. “Of course you can. Christ. Yes, Luke.”

Luke laughed, sounding just as out of breath as Michael felt, and leaned his forehead into Michael’s neck. He licked Michael’s collarbone, tongue hot against his skin, and started downwards - every little touch sent flashes of heat scattering across Michael’s body, lighting up nerve endings he didn’t know he had. He arched his back and bit his lip and ghosted his hands through Luke’s hair - gentle, even though he knew Luke would have liked it rough as well. 

Then Luke’s fingers were around his dick. And Michael arched his back even higher, lifting his head off the sheets only to thump it down. Because fuck. Because fuck, this was amazing. Barely choking off a groan, he said, “God, that’s fucking-”

Michael flung an arm over his face just in time to stifle a gasp when Luke’s tongue, burning with heat, touched the tip of his dick. He felt Luke’s tiny laugh, soft against the inside of his thighs, and felt air catch in his lungs. One of Luke’s hands was holding his hip down and the other five fingers were curled around his dick - those long fucking fingers, fuck, Michael wished the lights were on, if only so he could see Luke’s hands and his mouth and his pretty, pretty face, right there between his legs like goddamn angel.

Without thinking about it, Michael slid both his hands into Luke’s hair, and Luke moaned a sigh before taking Michael’s dick into his mouth. As soon as he did, Michael knew he wasn’t going to last long.

Michael should have expected Luke to be good at this, in hindsight. When Luke had been biting the ends of various pens around the apartment, sucking on his own lips or worrying at cutlery with his teeth, Michael had tried to ignore it - of course, because the alternative to ignoring it was to think about how good Luke would be at blowing someone. Preferably him. And until recently that was forbidden.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Michael cursed. He was relying very heavily on Luke’s hand on his hip to keep him from bucking upwards, because his self-control was waning.

“Who’s loud now?” The vibrations of Luke’s voice made Michael tighten his grip on Luke’s curls, and Luke groaned, sending more shivery vibrations up Michael’s body. Michael cursed, again, and tried to unclench his toes.

Michael ignored Luke’s comment out of respect for himself and threw his head back. Panting, he said, “I’m close.”

Luke swirled his tongue in a way that felt almost inhumane, given the amount of dopamine that flooded Michael’s system in response and the heat that pooled in the pit of his stomach. He almost cried out at the feeling, just managing to choke it back into a moan - but now that he’d started moaning, it was impossible to stop. He bit his lip and accidentally bucked his hips up; remarkably, Luke didn’t seem to mind, and even sucked him down farther, swallowing hard. 

“Luke,” Michael groaned. “I- I’m close, I said-”

“Okay, okay,” Luke whispered, pulling off enough to talk. Michael wished he could see Luke’s face.

Michael tugged at Luke’s hair, trying to maneuver him up so he could kiss him again. “Come here?” 

His dick was still heavy and hard, but he could feel the grogginess from withdrawal coming on like the shadows following a sunset, fast-moving, inevitable. He was holding it off for now, but he wouldn’t have to for much longer. He kissed Luke and tasted himself on Luke’s lips and closed his eyes and rocked against Luke’s leg, not wanting this to end, but needing some kind of finish, some relief, and soon.

He pushed Luke’s face away from him, half a centimeter, and curled his index finger into the side of Luke’s mouth. He was trying to get his hand wet enough to jerk Luke off, but he almost forgot about his primary motive when Luke started sucking on his finger. Michael put in another, then another, and Luke dutifully slicked them up without question. That was hot. Fuck. Luke was rocking his hips against Michael’s, and Michael only lasted ten more seconds before he took his fingers from Luke’s mouth and wrapped them around Luke’s dick instead. Luke bit Michael’s lip, hard- wait- shit, that was good, that was really good, and Michael involuntarily snapped his hips up to rut against Luke’s thigh. The friction from Luke’s thigh was almost immediately replaced by Luke’s hand.

“Faster,” Michael whispered, when Luke’s hand started moving. Luke groaned beside him and shifted, pressing his forehead into the sheets beside Michael’s head, his curls falling against the side of Michael’s face. 

Michael’s brain flooded with the best kind of dizziness. The heat in the pit of his stomach was burning, writhing, pulsing with sensation - he was so, so close, he could feel his dick twitch in between Luke’s fingers with a familiar surge-

“Fuck, Luke-”

He trailed off in an open-mouthed groan. His world was all feeling. Nothing existed except for the pleasure rushing through his body, shaking his legs, blacking out the entire fucking world, anything that wasn’t Luke and Michael and this fucking feeling.

Luke stroked him through it. Luke came with a muttered string of curses, not a few seconds later, and Michael jerked him off until he was done, too. 

And then the exhaustion hit Michael like a train. Submerged in hazy bliss, he wrapped his arms around Luke and kissed him dopily on the side of the head. He couldn’t find the energy to speak, but he wouldn’t know what to say anyway. 

“Tired now?” Luke asked, smile audible, voice low and comforting.

“Shhhh,” Michael breathed. “Let me sleep.”

Luke brushed the hair out of Michael’s eyes, gently, carefully. Michael felt his consciousness fading with each passing second. “I’ll get us cleaned up,” Luke whispered. “One sec.”

Luke was gone off the bed, presumably to the bathroom to get a towel, and Michael dozed between wakefulness and sleep until Luke got back into bed. The towel went somewhere on the floor with a quiet thump when he was done. Then Luke’s warm body was against Michael’s again.

“Thank you,” Michael mumbled. 

Luke touched the side of his face. “Love you.”

Michael’s brain lost its footing in the waking world, and everything dissolved. 

  
  


**28**

_What a perfect mess_

Saturday was almost a day off. It would have been, if Michael didn’t have a four-hour shift in the afternoon, but that wasn’t important. Right now, what was important was Luke’s back. Because Luke was sitting on the edge of the bed, farthest side from the window, lit up in perfect morning sunlight, and he didn’t have a shirt on. And his hair was a beautiful, beautiful mess of curls that Michael itched to sink his hands into. Instead, he pretended to be asleep and watched from between lowered eyelids.

“I know you’re awake,” Luke whispered. “You moved, like, a minute ago.”

Damnit, his cover was blown. He groaned. “‘Morning, Luke.”

Luke turned around and smiled at him, and Michael was completely unable to prevent himself from smiling back. Luke’s eyes traced lazy lines over Michael’s face, his half-exposed chest, his arm on top of the bedsheets. Michael wanted to call him out on it, but he was too busy drowning in the attention. He’d never sought out attention before - it usually meant bad things, when he was involved - but now he couldn’t get enough. 

“How’d you get your hair to do that?” Luke asked, gesturing. Michael ran his fingers through it. It was sticking up off his head in the worst mess possible.

Michael shrugged. “I dunno. It just looks like that.”

“Cute,” Luke told him.

Michael felt a blush rise to his cheeks, and he tugged at the strands near his face, catching bleached tips between his fingers. “I need to dye it again, I think. You’re kind of winning the blond game, though, so maybe I’ll do another colour.”

“Winning the blond game,” Luke repeated, under his breath, with a fond tilt to his voice. Louder, he said, “What colour?”

The first thing that came to mind was blue. And of course it would, because Michael was looking at Luke’s pretty eyes, blue as the summer sky, and he was thinking how much he loved that colour. But he’d always thought red would be nice, or purple…

“Uh, black,” Michael said. He’d make up his mind later. He hadn’t gone  _ that _ soft, had he? Blue?

Luke grinned. “Edgy. I like it.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “You’ll be glad to know I used to have an eyebrow piercing too, then.”

Luke’s face burst into a smug grin. “I used to have a lip ring.”

Michael’s stomach swooped. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“I swear on my life.”

“Oh my god, really?” His mind automatically leapt to last night, and he felt his cheeks warm up, imagining Luke’s lips-

“Yeah, you can probably still see the hole. It never closed.”

“Oh-” Michael stuttered. “Wow.”

Smooth. Fucking smooth. Luke gave him an innocent grin, but his eyebrows started rising at the expression on Michael’s face. Oh, no, so he  _ hadn’t _ been thinking the same thing that Michael was - now, though, his lips curved in a wicked smile, and Michael knew they were on the same page. 

Luke shook his head. “Dirty mind. What if I just got it because I thought it looked cool?”

“Did you?” Michael hedged.

Luke tipped his head in admittance. “Well, I mainly got it to mess with my parents, but… you know…”

“That’s hot,” Michael told him, pretending he wasn’t blushing. Luke saw right through him, but didn’t point it out.

“Who knows?” Luke said. “I could put it in again, if my boyfriend likes it.”

“Your boyfriend would like it,” Michael said. Heat danced through his body, making him light-headed. “If you do, that is.”

“You’re making me forget why I ever took it out in the first place,” Luke laughed, softly. He started to lean towards Michael, but stopped. Michael made a disappointed noise.

“Brush your teeth,” Luke whispered. “Then I’ll kiss you.”

Michael made a face, but got up anyway. Stage two of his withdrawal was imminent, and he was going to make the most of his self-motivation while he still had it. It definitely helped that Luke was bribing him.

\---

They had barely two hours at home before Michael had to leave for work again. Michael spent part of it in the shower with Luke, part of it kissing Luke on the couch, and part of it running his fingers through Luke’s hair while Luke watched his ridiculous reality TV. Michael wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Ashton was at work today, and had been taking his break when Michael went into the staff room to clock in. He’d waved at Michael and left to get a coffee, probably, at the shop on the corner of Redfern and Pitt Street. More than once before Michael had seen him return from break holding a  _ Hunter’s Corner _ coffee cup.

Michael managed to space out and think about Luke for a couple of hours, which wasn’t hard, given the nature of his job and the nature of Luke.

“Hey, are you and Luke free tonight?”

Michael turned, and Ashton was standing behind him, wearing a hopeful grin, his black hair looking more styled than it usually was. “Yeah, I think so, why?”

“I asked Calum out.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, for real? Congrats.”

“No, actually-” Ashton shook his head with a wince- “Okay, alright. I kind of asked him out as a friend. Because I said I was going with my other friends! That’s, uh, you and Luke.”

“Well, I guess that’s the first step,” Michael said, sympathetically, as if he knew jack shit about how Ashton and Calum’s relationship worked. “And yeah, I’d really like to meet Calum. Where were you thinking of?”

“There’s a place on Regent Street, a couple of blocks down. It’s great. Do you have your phone with you? I’ll text you the address and the time.”

“I left it at home,’ Michael lied. “Here, just write your number on some paper, or whatever. I’ll ask Luke if he’s down to come, too.”

“Okay, thanks. Awesome.” Ashton grabbed a pen from his pocket, looked around for paper, but didn’t find any. He gestured at Michael’s hand. “Can I just write it, like, on you?”

“Yeah, sure.” Michael held out his hand. Ashton scribbled his number down on Michael’s palm. It was kind of nice, Michael reflected, having friends. Even if they didn’t know much about each other.

“Alright!” Ashton grinned, excited, when he was done. “See you!”

Michael couldn’t help feeling excited too, after seeing the enthusiastic look on Ashton’s face. “Sure, bye!”

Ashton cast a furtive glance around the kitchen for Ashley before giving Michael a short wave and disappearing. Now Michael had plans for this evening, for the first time in- well, possibly forever, and he had to go to a restaurant on a date with his boyfriend and his friend from work and _his_ maybe-boyfriend, who might also be Michael’s long-lost childhood friend. This was going to be an interesting night.

It was already almost five, so Michael would be able to clock out soon. His mind drifted to Calum. It was unconfirmed that this Calum was the same Calum that Michael knew from elementary school - it was actually very unlikely that it would be - but the possibility clung in his brain regardless. What if? He really, really should have asked Ashton what Calum’s last name was.

He hoped Luke would agree to come. Michael didn’t know if he could go out and do adult things with adult people without Luke. Especially in a restaurant that may or may not be serving alcohol, surrounded by a barely-friend and a stranger.

The clock ticked away, and Michael went back to work. 

\---

“Hey, I’m back,” Michael called. He turned to lock the apartment door behind him. Seconds later, there were arms around his body and a chin resting on his shoulder, blond curls against his cheek. 

“You can just say you’re home,” Luke mumbled against his ear.

Michael felt his heart flood with an unfamiliar, but very, very nice, warmth. He turned his head and hummed into Luke’s hair. “How do you know I’m not a spy sent here to kidnap you?”

“You’re doing a pretty bad job of that,” Luke said. His lips were curved against Michael’s jaw in an unmistakable smile. 

“Well,” Michael said. “The first step is always seduction.”

Luke laughed. “Okay. I take it back, then. You’re doing a great job.”

Michael put the keys on the counter beside the door and raised his hand, tilting Luke’s face towards him. The kiss was sweet, Luke’s lips slow and gentle, and- wait- what was that, on the far corner of Luke’s mouth?

Michael pulled away and spun around to look at Luke straight on. Sure enough, there was a thin black ring attached to Luke’s lower lip. Luke was grinning at him. “Oh, you fucker,” Michael said. “Kiss me, then.”

Luke did. The cold metal of the ring contrasted heavily with his warm mouth, and when Michael sucked on it, Luke let out soft little noises that made Michael’s brain go haywire. He bit down on Luke’s lip and lifted his hands to frame Luke’s face, with half a mind to turn them around and push Luke against the door and make out with him until they were both dizzy, the rest of the world forgotten.

“What’s-” Luke pulled away slightly. “What’s that on your hand?”

Michael looked at his palm. Oh, right, Ashton’s number - Michael had to text him soon, to ask for the details of their plans tonight. “Phone number,” he said, eager to get back to kissing Luke and neglecting his responsibilities.

Luke narrowed his eyes. “Someone gave you their number? Why?”

Michael half-laughed. Luke’s protective tone was definitely attractive. “Oh, not like that. It’s Ashton’s. You know, from work. He invited us out to dinner, actually, with his boyfr- with his roommate.”

Luke relaxed. “Oh, okay. When?”

“Tonight, if you want to. I just need to text him back, actually.” Michael leaned in to kiss Luke again. Luke let him. 

Against his lips, Luke said, “Wanna do that now?”

“Fuck the police,” Michael whispered back. “I’ll do what I want.”

Luke laughed and pushed Michael away, but not too far, an intensely pretty smile gracing his lips. Michael could only stare at his face with lovelorn reverence. He snapped out of it as soon as he regained self-awareness.

“It’s better if you do it sooner.”

Michael sighed. “Yeah, yeah. So you wanna go, too?”

“Any chance to go on a date with my boyfriend,” Luke said. He took his phone out of his pocket and handed it over. “Here you go.”

Michael opened his mouth to say  _ I love you, _ because it came completely naturally to him in the moment, and it seemed like the right thing to say. He almost said it. He had the weird feeling Luke had told him that he loved him… or maybe that was just a dream… but he didn’t want to go about making Luke uncomfortable, or showing that level of vulnerability. He couldn’t do that right now. 

Instead, he opened his mouth and said, “Thanks, babe.”

Luke gave him a surprised look. “No problem, babe.”

Michael’s lips curled into a self-conscious smirk. “What, couldn’t think of anything else?”

Luke scowled, betrayed by the laughter in his eyes. He gave Michael a light push on the shoulder before turning around and walking towards the couch. “I’ll think of something better next time. Honey.”

“Just ‘Michael’ is fine!” Michael called after him. 

Michael typed the number into his phone, then sent a  _ hi _ to it. Less than a minute later, Ashton replied with  _ hey, michael!!  _ and the address of the restaurant. 

_ Luke’s coming too, _ Michael wrote.

_ Awesome. How about 7? _

_ Sounds good _

After a pause, Michael typed out a question.  _ And is there a dress code?? _

_ Nah it’s whatever. Dress fancy if u want tho  _

_ Ok  _

_ See you there! _

_ Yeah cya! _

“What time is it?” Michael asked, projecting his voice from where he was standing in the kitchen to Luke on the couch.

Luke sighed and flicked between channels. “Can you read?

“Oh, nevermind. I have your phone. It’s five thirty. We’re meeting Ashton and Calum at the restaurant at seven.”

“Shit, we haven’t gone shopping yet. You can probably borrow some of my clothes, if you want.”

“What, this isn’t good enough?” Michael joked, gesturing down to his Fall Out Boy t-shirt and ripped jeans. Both items of clothing had come from Luke’s closet in the morning, so really, Luke and his old fashion sense were to blame for this. 

Luke shook his head, his smile growing. “Is there a law against dressing nice?”

Michael shrugged. “I don’t know, is there?”

Luke flipped him off, adjusting his position on the couch to tilt his head back and look at Michael beseechingly. “Come on, I can find you something.”

“You’re gonna dress me?” 

Luke gave him that shy half-smile, biting down on the corner of his lips. “If you want me to?”   
  


“Yeah, I want.” Michael felt a strange weight leave his shoulders - responsibility. He had to work on taking responsibility for himself, he knew that, but fuck it, Luke offered.

“Cool. Come over here, then.”

\---

An hour or so later, they were done. 

Not quite done; Michael was agonizing over the state of his hair, and over the slim possibility of Calum being  _ his _ Calum, the one that he knew from Year Seven. And how was he supposed to tell Luke he was worried without sounding like he was insane? Of course it wouldn’t be Calum. What if it was, and Michael recognized him? Even worse, what if it was, but Michael  _ didn’t  _ recognize him? He would have changed so much over ten years. 

Wow, it really had been ten years. Michael was getting worked up over absolutely nothing. Still, Calum has been the only friend Michael had, in his life, until he’d met Luke, and his brain continued spinning memories against his will. They only managed to depress him.

Michael pulled himself out of his mind, with due amounts of force. 

“Your hair’s fine, Michael,” Luke said, from the bathroom. 

Michael tugged once more at his hair before letting his elbows rest on the kitchen table and looking up at Luke. “It’s not that.”

Like glanced at him again and frowned. “What is it, then?”

“Nothing,” Michael told him, regretting his words as soon as they left his mouth.

Luke stopped doing whatever he was doing - to Michael, it looked like he was putting some kind of eye makeup on. “Are you sure?”

Michael didn’t know what to tell him. It wasn’t nothing, but it wasn’t anything, either. He just had to forget about this. He sighed and shook his head, then admitted, “Okay, it is something, but it’s not important.”

“Promise you’ll tell me if it is?”

“I’ll tell you later, even if it isn’t.”

Luke gave him a faint smile, and when he blinked and looked back towards the mirror, Michael caught a tiny sparkle of glitter on his eyelids. Michael’s brain kindly informed him that it made Luke look pretty as fuck. It also helped that he was wearing a white button-down shirt, undone one button past decent and tight black jeans that flattered his legs unbelievably well. The lip ring was not making life easier for Michael either, and he couldn’t stop himself from raking his eyes up and down Luke, over and over. And Luke was  _ his boyfriend. _ What the fuck. Impossible. There was no fucking way an alcoholic loser burnout like Michael-

“I’m almost done. You ready?”

Michael was jarred out of his thoughts again. No, he was not prepared for Luke’s full attention right now. “Yeah,” he said, anyway.

Luke turned and glanced Michael up and down. “You look great.” His voice was small and adoring, and that fact combined with his words was enough to make Michael’s face heat up. This was completely happening. He knew this was happening. He could barely believe it.

“Guess I have you to thank for that,” Michael told him, with an edge of gruffness. He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling, but welcomed the rush of warmth to his chest. 

Luke waved his hand. “You look great all the time.”

“I don’t look great all the time,” Michael said, with disbelief. “I barely- I look like shit, usually, and especially when-” He cut himself off. Okay, he hadn’t meant to say that. He had spent most of his life not giving an absolute fuck about how he looked. 

Luke gave him a hard look. “You look hot. Every day.”

Michael shrugged. “I look kind of like a mess.”

“Okay, maybe,” Luke allowed. “But a sexy mess.”

Michael felt his eyebrows lift. “A sexy mess,” he repeated. “Every day?” 

“Well, you know,” Luke continued. He rolled his eyes, abashed, and looked around the room instead of at Michael. “You know. Like, the ‘if we didn’t have to go out in the next few minutes, I’d ask you to fuck me,’ kind of sexy mess.”

Michael felt his breath catch in his throat at the same time blood rushed through his core. Luke couldn’t say that to Michael - did Luke have any idea what it did to him? Apparently, he did, because Luke was watching him with a cunning gaze that made Michael even more worked up. Michael groaned and covered his eyes. “You can’t say that,” he accused. 

“It’s true,” Luke told him, a blush of his own dusting his cheeks. “Every day, mate. You have no idea.”

Michael laughed self-consciously, feeling lighter than air. He opened his mouth to say something back, but couldn’t get the words out. Nobody had ever made Michael feel like this. Luke had to be insane, to say things like that to him, to kiss him, to talk to him on the street two weeks ago and offer him a place to live.  _ I love you. _ Those words didn’t come out, either. This life was going to take some time to get used to.

Michael cleared his throat. “Oh, Luke,” he got out.

Luke closed the distance between them and kissed Michael in response. Michael held the collar of Luke’s shirt like it was a lifeline, shutting his eyes tight, committing every single sensation and emotion to memory.

“I meant it,” Luke whispered against his lips. “I… you’re really fucking incredible.”

“You too, idiot. Now shut up and kiss me,” Michael mumbled back. 

  
  


**29**

_So bury me in memory_

“You calling your therapist tonight?”

“Not tonight. But yeah, I will tomorrow.”

Luke seemed to be working over something in his mind, and Michael let him do it in peace for a minute. The setting sun lit up the western sky in brilliant hues of orange and yellow, barely visible through the trees and buildings cluttering the sky on Regent Street, but Michael found it striking nonetheless. Not as striking, however, as the man walking beside him. Michael held Luke’s hand tighter.

“Michael?”

“Hm?”

“Could I… would it be easy for me to get a therapist?”

The rest of their journey passed quickly in conversation. Michael promised to ask Ellen about it when she called tomorrow. He’d almost forgotten they were walking to a restaurant to meet up with Ashton, and Luke had to pull out his phone to check the address to see if they’d gone too far without noticing. They hadn’t passed it - the restaurant was across the street. Michael saw Ashton waiting outside.

“Oh, hey!” Ashton greeted, when Luke and Michael crossed. Someone with black hair standing beside him turned away from the menu in the window, giving Luke and Michael a friendly smile. Michael felt like a carpet had been pulled out from under his feet. And he realized he really, really wasn’t prepared for this after all.

“This is Calum,” Ashton introduced. “And Calum, this is Luke and Michael.” He gestured at them respectively.

“Nice to meet you,” Calum said. His voice was low, far lower than Michael remembered it. He couldn’t take his eyes off Calum. Because it  _ was _ Calum. He was ninety-nine percent sure. No, he was totally sure - that was Calum’s face, he had the same nose, same eyes - yeah, sure, he’d grown up, but… it was him. All that fucking time spent worried about this exact thing happening, and Michael still didn’t know what to do. Why hadn’t he come up with a fucking plan, what the fuck-

“Nice to meet you too,” Luke replied, politely. 

Michael blinked out of his panicked reverie and nodded, forcing a smile, turning slightly away from Calum and brushing his hair down over his face. “Yeah,” he agreed. He could feel Luke’s eyes on him. 

“Alright.” Ashton put his hands together and glanced at Calum. Michael didn’t miss the softness in his gaze. It would be kind of sweet, he reflected, if he hadn’t been otherwise occupied with the uncertainty flooding through his own veins. “Wanna head in?”

They got a table without incident. Luke stuck close by Michael, shooting him looks every now and then. Michael collected himself and managed to hold onto the conversation. He tried not to look at Calum too much. It didn’t help that he’d caught Calum watching him too, more than once. Did he recognize Michael? Was there anything to recognize? Had he changed so drastically that his only fucking friend wouldn’t know him anymore?

Michael fought to rid his head of thoughts. He concentrated on the glass of water on the table in front of him, the chatter of people having dinner at tables around them, the comforting presence of Luke beside him. He concentrated on talking about work, about travel, about university, about America. He didn’t talk a lot about himself. When Ashton asked how he and Luke met, Michael told him they’d both been looking for someone to rent with, and they’d ended up together. It wasn’t that far off the truth. Luke smiled and nodded, giving Michael a complicated look: conspiratoring, fond, questioning, confused.  _ What’s wrong?  _ Michael gripped his hand under the table in a silent promise to tell him later.

They ordered food and drinks. Ashton and Calum ordered a virgin daiquiri (Ashton said he was driving) and a beer, respectively. Luke shot Michael a look, this time worried, and ordered sparkling water for them both. Michael tried to relax. He almost succeeded. All his time on this earth, all his time in Redfern and Newton and everywhere in between, he hadn’t spent a lot of time in places like these - and now he was paying the price. He could navigate the crack house on the other side of the baseball field with his eyes closed. He could make a meal for himself out of mismatched lunch meat and vegetables in the fridge at Saint Vincent. But he couldn’t do this. He should have fucking expected this to happen. Stage two was hitting him, hard, and he felt like he was just barely holding onto the passing of time, let alone the conversation. Luke was still holding his hand. Tracing patterns into his skin. Michael owed him everything.

“Michael, I swear I’ve seen you before,” Calum said, after a lull in discussion. 

Michael’s head cleared in some kind of godsend, and he tilted his head towards Calum, feigning the same kind of suspicious recognition that Calum was displaying. “I was actually thinking the same thing. Did we go to school together or something?”

Calum’s eyes widened, and Michael watched the recollection slip into place. “Wait. Michael Clifford?”

Michael’s face started breaking into a twisted grimace that he managed to school into an excited grin. “Calum Hood?”

Calum’s laugh was the final nail in the coffin; it was him. “My god, mate, it’s been, what, ten years?” He took a drink of water, and Michael let his eyes flash between Ashton and Luke for a second, reading their surprised, pleasant expressions. 

“Yeah, something like that.”

_ Why did you leave me? Why’d your family pack up and go to America and leave me here alone for ten fucking years, fucked out of my mind on alcohol, homeless? I had nobody, nothing- _

He remembered the day Calum told him he was moving. The memory was painfully clear, despite how long he’d spent pretending that he couldn’t recall it. He’d been twelve years old, and he was at Calum’s house, and they’d been playing games on the Xbox together. Calum’s parents had been in the kitchen, eating lunch and listening to the radio. The song -  _ Gives You Hell _ by the All-American Rejects - made its way down the hallway, just audible under the sound of the Xbox. Calum had turned to him, a sheepish expression on his face, and said,  _ “ _ I’m switching schools in September.” 

And Michael had said, “To the private one?”

“No. We’re moving,” Calum had told him. He didn’t sound happy, but he didn’t sound all that sad, either. “To the United States.”

Something dark and cold had begun to twist up Michael’s stomach. “When?”

Calum had sighed and scratched his knee, eyes locked onto the TV screen. “Next week.”

Michael had cried the night Calum left. And now Calum was sitting in front of him, a new person, shaped by years in America and years with other friends, other people, and university, and Michael was nothing but a figure in the dust of the past.

“Woah, for real?” Ashton looked between the two of them. “You know each other?”

Holding Michael’s gaze, Calum said, “We went to elementary together. In Newtown. My family moved to the states, in what, Year Seven or Eight?”

Michael nodded. “Seven,” he confirmed, quietly. The buzzing that filled his head grew too loud for him to think. Stars swam through his vision.

“Wow, long time,” Ashton said. He seemed to sense a strangeness hovering between Calum and Michael and didn’t press it. Luke sensed it too, and he shifted closer in the booth towards Michael. Michael felt Luke’s gaze on the side of his face.

Then the alcohol arrived at the table moments later, stalling the urgent need for conversation. Michael bit the inside of his cheeks until he tasted blood, head spinning. Calum and Ashton didn’t seem to notice. Luke ran his thumb over Michael’s knuckles, again, again, again. Michael blinked away everything and managed to relax - after all, he’d made it through the worst part of his withdrawal, and now he just had to handle the temptation to reach over and pick up someone’s unattended glass. He took measured breaths. And now Calum was talking to him.

“To be honest, I never thought I’d see you again,” he said. He had a Californian tilt to his Australian accent. It made him sound even more unfamiliar. “How’s it been, Michael?”

How’s it been.  _ It’s been literal shit, Calum _ \- what was he expecting Michael to say? Probably something like,  _ yeah, everything’s fantastic, I got an arts degree at some college and now I’m working at a restaurant while I find a better job. _ He almost opened his mouth to say it. He took a deep breath. That was a mistake. The smell of Calum’s beer infiltrated his lungs. Feeling seconds away from either blacking out or breaking his fingers against the table, Michael stood up without a word and made a beeline for the bathroom.

_ How’s it been, Michael? _

Michael locked himself in a stall and shoved his hands through his hair, dragging his fingers out through the strands of his hair by his face, watching blond tips disappear and reappear between them, breathing hard.  _ Well, Calum, I bought weed from the school’s potheads, then I started drinking. And I dropped out in Year Ten, ha. Then I left home and slept on people’s couches for a year or so while drunk out of my fucking mind. Can’t remember most of that, though.  _

Michael pressed his forehead against the door of the stall and squeezed his eyes shut, taking long breaths to try to flush his lungs. He hated breathing in the smell of toilets, but it was better than the alternative.

_ I had a boyfriend back then but I don’t remember his name. I went to rehab and swore that I’d never go try that again - then I ran with a group of vandals and wannabe thieves and I spent more than a few nights in the Redfern Precinct with cops watching me through the bars.  _

Oh, those had been long fucking nights, all right. 

_ Somehow got bailed out. Somehow found a girl in suburban Redfern to stay with. Dated her. Went to rehab again. Got dumped. Went to rehab again, left, went back, left, went back. Then I found Luke on the street in the middle of the night when I was neck deep in withdrawal. Because I’m addicted. I’m a fucking addict, Calum. I’m not Michael Clifford from fucking grade school, I’m a burnout and a failure and a lost cause, and it’s no fucking wonder you didn’t recognize me at first, because that kid has been dead for years. _

“Michael?” 

Luke’s voice in the otherwise-empty bathroom. Michael pressed his hands to his eyes and they came away wet with tears. He blinked them away.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was not normal. He knew Luke could tell. 

“You okay? Is something wrong?” Luke had a careful tone, but Michael could tell he was worried. He heard Luke move towards the stall door and lean against the wall beside it.

Michael undid the lock on the door, slowly. What was wrong? What, exactly, was wrong? He tried to isolate it in his head. He couldn’t.  _ What was wrong with him? _

“Was it the drinks?” Luke asked. 

Michael opened the door and stared at Luke. Luke stared back, with equal intensity. “Was it Calum?”

Michael shrugged. “Both?”   
  


“What happened with Calum? You said you knew him from school?”

And because Luke was Luke, and he was leaning on the wall beside Michael with a worried twist to his lips, and because he was watching him with so much trust and compassion and straight-up genuine  _ care, _ Michael told him about Calum. Just the part about them being friends, and about him moving away, and a half-formed sentence that implied Luke had been his only friend since Calum. That was probably enough. They were supposed to be having a nice fucking night out, after all.

When Michael lapsed into silence, Luke turned and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Michael startled. Luke muttered, his face still nearby, “Calum said he needed to talk to you.”

_ Why would- _

Michael nodded and tugged Luke in for a real kiss. Luke let him for a few seconds, but drew back. “Was that what you were worried about before we left?”

“Yeah.”

Luke didn’t push any farther. “Okay. Um, and he was actually going to follow you in here. But I- thought I should first. Hope that was okay.”

More than okay. Michael felt a small smile creep onto his face. “You pulled the boyfriend card?”

Luke huffed. “Well,  _ I _ don’t know him. So I wanted to make sure you were all right. And- well, yeah, I pulled the boyfriend card,” he allowed.

Michael tilted his head against Luke’s and breathed in the smell of his cologne. When the bathroom door opened with a squeal of hinges, he sighed, and leaned back, ignoring the stranger who came in. “All good?” Luke whispered.

“No.”

Luke tried again. “I mean, ready to go back to the table?”

Michael composed himself. “Yeah. Fine. Did you tell them why I left? I mean, about the drinks?”

Luke shook his head. “Want me to?”

“No. Uh, it’s fine. I’ll be able to deal with it.”

“Okay.” 

They left the bathroom together. Michael had no fucking idea what to do. He wanted to leave and go home and kiss Luke, but he had to stay. For Ashton, at least. He didn’t know what to think about Calum. Of course nothing had been Calum’s fault. Michael knew that. Calum hadn’t had any sway over his parents’ decision to move - he had been thirteen at the time. But Michael couldn’t blame Calum’s parents, either; he could only blame his own, and himself, for how he turned out.

Still, he’d spent the last few years trying to figure out where he went wrong. Where in his life had he fucked up enough to land him here? He remembered picking the paint off the wall behind the bed in the rehab clinic. What had he done, and when, that had thrown his life so off-course?

Michael sometimes wondered what would have happened if Calum had stayed. That was where he got stuck.  _ What if.  _

The reality of right now came back to him in pieces. He didn’t know Calum anymore - Calum was practically a stranger. He was not going to blame Calum for anything. Michael committed that fact deep into his consciousness. He wasn’t going to wonder what could be, would be, should be; he couldn’t change the past. 

Michael looked at Luke out of the corner of his sight and smiled inwardly. Pretty eyeshadow, beautiful fucking eyes, perfectly curved mouth, and a jaw that Michael wanted to leave kisses under. Luke was attractive in a way that was nearly physically painful. Michael felt guilt in the pit of his stomach when he remembered that Luke didn’t really know Ashton and Calum, and he had probably been relying on Michael to socialize with them. He’d apologize for that later.  _ Apologize. _ He’d been getting better at that. 

“Sorry,” Michael said, ruefully, with due cheeriness, when he slid back into the booth. Ashton smiled at him timidly. Calum gave him an unreadable look.

“Actually, I’ll be right back, too,” Ashton announced. “Bathroom,” he added, in explanation.

He left. Michael’s gaze flickered to Calum, who reached for his beer and took a drink. Michael watched him for a second before glancing away, gripping Luke’s hand under the table. Calum caught every movement with his dark eyes.

“Hey, Calum,” Michael greeted. 

“Hey, Michael,” Calum parroted, with a small, hesitant smile. “Um, you good?”

Michael shrugged. Smiled weakly. “Yep, I’m fine. Nothing interesting going on with me. What about you? How’s life been?”

Calum gave him a parsing look. “Michael, we were best friends, mate.” Michael could tell Luke wanted to leave them to have a private conversation, but Michael’s unfailing hold on Luke’s hand made it impossible. Calum leaned forward and continued. “For real, how are you? What have you been up to? Hey, d’you ever start that band you were planning to?”

Michael shook his head, filled with an inexplicable haze of remorse and dread.

Calum’s eyebrows furrowed, concerned. “Are you okay? You don’t look that well.”

“That’ll be the withdrawal,” Michael muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“That’ll be the fucking withdrawal,” Michael said, loudly. 

Calum blinked at him. “You’re-”

“Yes.”

Calum took a drink, then put it down on a coaster. Michael watched him. Calum gestured to his glass. “Oh. It’s this?”

Michael nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Calum said. “Should I…”

“It’s fine,” Michael gritted out.

“Right.”

Michael held his gaze for a few more seconds, then slumped back into his seat, pressing his hands over his eyes. Luke’s hand brushed his side. Calum finished his beer and sat against the back of his chair too, arms crossed over his chest.

Despite himself, Michael felt a hysterical laugh bubble in his throat. Ridiculous. What were the fucking chances this would’ve happened to him? He stifled a mirthless grin against his palms and peered out from between his fingers. “Well,” he half-laughed, muffled behind his hands, “I guess we have a lot to catch up on.”

“What happened to you?” Calum interjected, causing Michael’s self-pitying laughter to die off.

A cold fist gripped Michael’s heart. He glanced at Luke and exhaled, trying not to let his breath shake on the way out. He couldn’t do this - not right here in a fucking restaurant, not in a room with strangers and alcohol and definitely not when he’d only just met Calum again. 

“I’ll tell you sometime,” he said, willing himself to stay clear-headed, stay alert and awake and functional, fighting down the urge to bolt. “Not right now.”

After giving him a long look, Calum propped his elbow on the table and raised his hand, extended as if to shake. Michael stared at it. Memories came back, one by one - making up a secret handshake in the schoolyard, too complicated to replicate, forgetting it and improvising each time. Laughing until their chests hurt too much to breathe, and then some, because there was nothing quite like being young and happy and excited over everything, anything, endless possibilities. Dreaming about places to go and things to do when they grew up. Dreaming about life and love and death and things they didn’t understand, until they had to bury Calum’s hamster in the backyard and realized everything was temporary. Sleeping over at Calum’s house, watching movies until 2 AM and talking until 4. It had been him and Calum against the world.

Michael took Calum’s hand, knowing his own was trembling. Calum’s eyebrows were lifted as if to say  _ promise? _ Michael could almost hear Calum say it in his head. 

Michael knew he should hate this. He didn’t owe Calum anything - he didn’t need to share anything. But he wanted to. It was  _ Calum.  _ He shook Calum’s hand after a moment’s hesitation and realized that this was his life now; there were people who cared about him, who wanted to know him. An anchor fell into place in his heart, and, for the first time, Michael didn’t coil away from it. 

Ashton came back to the table as the food arrived. He smiled at the waitress as he sat down, and made a comment along the lines of  _ perfect timing! _ She smiled in return, pushing her pretty auburn hair behind her ear. Calum watched the back of her head as she walked away. 

“Well, this looks great,” Ashton said, breezily. He ignored the strange tension between Luke, Michael, and Calum. Michael was grateful at the opportunity to ignore it too, and gladly struck up a conversation with Ashton about music. The weight on his chest was still there, still heavy and crushing, but there wasn’t any alcohol left on the table and Michael could breathe again. Either that or he’d reached some critical point of no return and was spiralling downward into some psychotic state - but he was feeling normal enough to rule that out. He had successfully put off the anxiety surrounding Calum to some point in the future instead. It was not a problem for tonight. 

“You okay?” Luke whispered in his ear.

Michael turned to him, suppressing the urge to bite Luke’s lip ring. It would be easy, because he was so close, and his eyes were lined with something dark in addition to the glittery eyeshadow, and Michael was completely and utterly helpless against Luke even without all that. Instead, he whispered back, “I don’t know.”

When he made himself turn away so he was facing Ashton and Calum again, Luke darted forward and kissed his cheekbone, right beside his ear. Michael could feel himself blush and he fought to ignore the heat rising to his face. Ashton laughed at him, and Michael flipped him off, feeling weightless. Maybe tonight wouldn't be a complete fiasco after all.

  
  


**30**

_They’ll never take us alive_

Afterwards, Luke and Michael bid Ashton and Calum goodbye. Ashton, who had a car, offered to drive them back to their apartment. They agreed. Michael underestimated how hard it would be to keep his hands to himself when he and Luke were sitting in the dark backseat, but he managed, if only out of respect for Ashton.

“Ash, get in the turn lane,” Calum told him.

At the nickname, Ashton glanced sharply at Calum. Michael saw the edge of a defenceless smile curl Ashton’s lips. “Yep, sorry.”

“Every day I wonder how you got your license,” Calum sighed. He looked over his shoulder at Luke and Michael. “Can any of you drive?”

Michael made a face. No, he couldn’t. Luke, however, shrugged. “Yeah.”

Michael started. “Wait, really?”

“Well, not a car. I used to have a motorcycle.”

Calum let out an impressed laugh, and Ashton a delighted one. “You’re fucking kidding,” Michael said. That mental image was way too good to be true.

“No, I’m not!” Luke protested. His smile was bright as the car pulled to a stop outside The Aspect. Michael felt dizzy with it.

“You’ll have to prove it sometime, then.”

“We’ll see,” Luke mused. 

“You guys wanna do this again another time?” Ashton asked, from the front seat. Streetlights illuminated the dashboard, throwing Ashton and Calum into shadows. 

Luke and Michael looked at each other. Was this sustainable? It wasn’t that expensive, and if they only went out once a week or once every two weeks, then they’d be fine. Watching the dark glimmer of Luke’s eyes in the backseat of Ashton’s car, his eyebrows raised in a silent question, Michael knew they’d reached the same conclusion. “Yeah, we should,” he agreed. “That was fun.”

“Awesome,” Ashton said, happily. 

“It was nice to meet you guys,” Calum said. “Luke,” he corrected himself. He turned around to meet Michael’s eyes. “Nice to see you again, Michael. Call me tomorrow, okay?” The way Calum said his name was so familiar, so oddly safe, even after all those years.

_ Call me. _ Michael wanted to run away and refuse to answer _. _ He nodded instead. Luke’s phone now carried both Ashton and Calum’s numbers, so he had no excuses. “Right.”

They got out of the car, said their goodbyes, and went up to their apartment. 

\---

The roof was their next destination.

“Last time we were up here, you were kissing me,” Luke pointed out, after the  _ Personnel Only _ door swung shut behind them.

“Would’ve done a lot more if it hadn’t started raining.”

Luke paused for a second. “I’m asking you to kiss me. If that wasn’t clear.”

Already grinning, Michael reached up, tilting Luke’s chin with his fingers and pressing their lips together. Luke took a step away and pulled Michael with him until his back was against the access door. Michael took the hint, moving closer; he pushed forward, against Luke’s body and mouth, coaxing a gasp from between his lips. 

The heavy steel door was cold, and the air temperate, but everywhere Michael touched Luke was a burning fire. He pulled on Luke’s lip ring with his teeth. Luke’s low moan in response reminded Michael of something, and he drew away enough to speak, hiding a smirk.

“So it’s true. That singers do it louder.”

Catching his breath, Luke said, “What?”

“You’re loud,” Michael continued. “I mean in bed. Or here, I guess. And you sing.”

Luke let out a breathy laugh against his lips. “Do people really say that?”

“Yeah, and I’ll be saying it now, too.”

Luke made a reproachful noise and leaned in again. Michael stopped him and ran a hand through his hair, amazed that Luke let him to that, let him touch his hair and face and god fucking damnit he needed to get it through his head that Luke liked him, that Luke had feelings for him, too. 

Unsure of exactly how to word the question he wanted to ask, Michael said, “Can I hear you sing sometime?”

“Haven’t you already?” Luke mumbled.

“Not really,” Michael protested. Hopeful, he added, “Can you play a song for me on guitar?”   
  


Luke turned his face away, strangely shy. Michael insistently tried to meet his gaze again, hoping Luke would see the honest implorement in his eyes. 

“Fine,” Luke gave in, voice edged with a gruffness that only partly disguised the pleased shyness underneath. “Fine, yes, I will. You fucking romantic.”

Michael hummed. “You’re the real romantic. You’ll be playing the song.”

Luke only snorted, shook his head, and looked at Michael with gentle, lovelorn intensity. Michael’s breath caught in his throat.

“And can you teach me how to play another song, too?” Michael was unable to stop extending requests. What he wanted was in reach now, and he wasn’t going to waste an opportunity. The memory of Luke teaching him guitar the first time, about a week ago, slipped into his mind, bringing heat to his cheeks. He narrowed his eyes at Luke - he could tell Luke was thinking the same thing. The knowing shine in his eyes gave it away. 

“Sure,” Luke agreed.

Accusatory, glad the darkness was obscuring his warm face, Michael said, “Wait. Last week. Were you… was that on purpose-“

Luke cut Michael off with a self-conscious laugh, bringing his hands up to cover his face. “I… what if I just wanted to teach you guitar?”

“Like  _ that?” _ Michael exclaimed.

Luke moved his hands to rest on the sides of Michael’s face, speaking in a whisper, eyes bright, lips curled in an abashed smile. “Can’t blame me for taking any chance I could get to touch you.”

Michael’s heart skipped a beat. “You drove me fucking crazy,” he muttered, putting undue effort into speaking. 

Luke let out a shaky breath that only made Michael even more worked up, and told him, “I could say the same about you.”

The glimmer of amusement in Luke’s voice was dreadfully intoxicating, and Michael didn’t even try to formulate a response, opting instead to push Luke against the access door and kiss him senseless. A memory from two weeks ago.  _ Just like the night we met, when I shoved you against the wall in your kitchen, withdrawal-rabid, and I saw your insanely blue eyes for the first time and the only thing I could think about was drowning in them.  _

\---

Even though the sun had set hours ago, the sky was closer to navy blue and purple than it was to black. The wind off the ocean smelled like salt, bringing Michael back to the summer, reminding him of beaches and sunlight and long, hot days. The rest of his surroundings grounded him in reality. Ever-familiar hints of smoke, gasoline, steel, and exhaust on the air; the distant thundering of trains, squeal of whistles, and the roar of motor vehicles. 

Luke and Michael were sitting on the concrete edge of the roof, feet fifteen meters over the sidewalk below. The light from the street barely reached them. Michael was buzzing with a million kinds of adrenaline: the good, the bad, and everything in between.

The fact Luke was sitting on the ledge with him told Michael that Luke was feeling it, too. Because Luke was afraid of heights. And Luke had gone a week without a cigarette.

When it was Michael and Luke, alone on the roof and looking out on the city lights, sometimes silence was better than talking. Other times, conversation was the dam that held off the flood. Michael and Luke were still finding their balance; not only between silence and chatter, but with each other - their thoughts, emotions, responsibilities, problems, and curses made for a complicated web, tangling and untangling in equal measure. This dance grew more and more familiar to them, but it was still far from perfect. There was time, Michael knew. They had time to get to know each other better.

They were just lost kids who’d grown up alone, in a world that turned against them, damned to live a life with broken glass at their feet and scars on their hearts. Neither of them expected this to come easy.

“You gonna call Calum tomorrow?”

“I think so.”

Luke hummed in response. Stroking his thumb over the knuckles on Michael’s hand, Luke added, “He said you wanted to start a band.”

Michael nodded. “Yeah.” He had wanted to. In Year Seven, he had a head full of dreams and the naive attitude of a doomed optimist. That was one of the dreams that had taken the longest to fade - if he squinted, it was still there, only now it was warped in the fires of  _ too late  _ and Michael didn’t know if he’d be able to bend it back into shape.

“Do you still want to?”

Tinged with hope, Luke’s voice was barely audible above the wind. Michael glanced at him. Truthfully, quietly, he said, “Maybe.”

He didn’t know. He didn’t want to reach too far and fall too hard. The real world was a strange and unfamiliar landscape, the future an unforgiving beast, and Michael was uncertain. But he wasn’t alone. There would be time to decide. There would always be more days, more nights, another morning.

Michael dissolved into the night sky, the glimmer of streetlights, the endless sprawl of Sydney. A light breeze carried the whisper of ever-nearing spring. Luke, radiating heat, was sitting on the edge of the roof like he wasn’t afraid to fall. There was open space below Michael’s feet. Luke’s hand was in his. Both their bodies were ticking with the memories of their old shackles.

“Tell me what you’re thinking?” Michael asked.

“I’m thinking I’m in love with you,” Luke said. “What are you thinking?”

Michael’s heart stopped, started. There was blood rushing in his ears. A burning explosion in the cavern of his chest.

“I think I’m in love with you, too.”

Luke half-laughed, relieved. “I’m glad, because it would have made that really fucking awkward if you weren’t.”

Michael grinned and kissed the side of Luke’s mouth, feeling lighter than air.  _ I love you I love you I love you I- _

“I told you last night, too,” Luke admitted. “You were basically asleep, though.”

The memory rushed back to him. “Oh,” Michael said, guilty. “Thought I’d dreamt that.”

Luke stifled a laugh against Michael’s lips. Michael kissed him. Nothing was perfect, he knew; but this was as close to perfect as it got for him, right now. He was together on the roof of an apartment complex with his favourite wake-up call. He was sitting next to his best friend. He was kissing the man he loved. 

And life would go on. It always did. The gears of the world never ran smooth, but they ran, and fate had always been a fan of the waiting game. Michael didn’t know what came next, only what was happening now. There was a good chance that whatever came next wasn’t going to be an easy ride. And why would it? Nothing was free. Especially not for people like them. 

The world was not made for people like them to be happy. The world was not made for Michael or Luke. It was not made for people with broken glass at their feet, or scars on their hearts; it was not made for the outcasts, the rejects, the lost causes. 

_ Sometimes it feels like we’re not supposed to be here. Maybe we’re pieces from other puzzles, other worlds, too different to fit into this one. Maybe it would be easier to abandon this life in the hopes that somehow, one day, we will find another chance, in a better world.  _

_ But this is the one we are stuck with.  _

_ So we’ll make it work. I promise you, we will make it work. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part titles in this act:
> 
> Careful by Paramore  
> Glitter and Crimson by All Time Low  
> Yeah Boy and Doll Face by Pierce The Veil  
> Tell That Mick by Fall Out Boy  
> I Don't Care If You're Contagious by Pierce The Veil
> 
> \----
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I hope you enjoyed this. I loved writing it, even if I am glad that it's finally done ;)

**Author's Note:**

> <3


End file.
